


Prince of Cats

by The_Arkadian



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Torture, Canonical Character Death, Epilepsy Warning, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Major Character Injury, Modern AU, Self-Harm, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 69
Words: 158,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1895679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/pseuds/The_Arkadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the year 2028. In a Europe that is slowly fragmenting back into the small countries, kingdoms and city-states of centuries ago, Prince Escalus has ruled the city-state of Verona with a velvet-gloved iron fist for over twenty years.</p><p>But Verona is a city that is rarely at peace for long, and an old feud is about to flare up into new violence. Five young people will determine the fate of two warring Houses and their grasp for power.</p><p>Can Tybalt Capulet and Mercutio Escalus manage to hold together the tenuous peace in Verona and forge a new life for all five young people - or will the city be ripped apart and their lives with it?<br/><img/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MercutioLives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercutioLives/gifts).



The party had been going for several hours, but somehow the enjoyment had gone out of it for him some time ago. He’d been in a restless mood all evening. As his uncle’s affairs went, this wasn’t a particularly bad one; some visiting dignitaries from Mantua to be impressed, and if there was one thing Escalus did well it was to throw a lavish evening’s entertainment together and ensure his guests would remember their visit long after they had gone. There’d been fire-eaters, jugglers, stilt walkers, a woman with three white tigers (he wasn’t entirely sure he cared overmuch for that part) - it certainly rivalled the extravagant do at the Capulets’ he’d gatecrashed (again) only a few nights before. He’d enjoyed the Capulet’s hospitality then more than his uncle’s this evening however - possibly due to the eternal amusing possibilities for twitting Tybalt under his own uncle’s roof. The invitations had stopped coming after the second such incident several months ago but Mercutio had never let the lack of an invite bar him - and besides, Lady Capulet had always been most welcoming and generous with her affection.

There’d been some sort of incident involving Tybalt at the last one - not of Mercutio’s instigation for once, to his own surprise; he presumed that that was why the dark-haired nephew of Lady Capulet hadn’t shown up this evening even though Lord Capulet were present with his daughter Juliet. Certainly Mercutio knew Tybalt had been invited; he’d made certain of it; and besides, it was unthinkable that his precious cousin should attend an event and Tybalt’s looming brooding presence not be felt. Mercutio had been looking forward to it, truth be told; he couldn’t resist the chance to bait Tybalt on his own territory for once. But Tybalt had not shown his face, and Lord Capulet had made no mention of him. Juliet had only smiled weakly and shook her head before being tugged away by her hawk-eyed uncle on the one occasion he’d managed to corner her and ask.

The party was noisy, rowdy; Mercutio glanced around but couldn’t see any sign of Romeo or Benvolio. He frowned and moved towards the garden where it was a little quieter. Escalus sure knew how to throw a great party but it was too loud to even hear himself think. As he made his way down the stone steps between the lines of shady plane trees he felt his phone vibrate and pulled it out.

_"Please come get me."_

Mercutio stared at his phone in disbelief. The text sat there, gold letters against the black background, stark and plain, no word of explanation - just the simple plea. 

From Tybalt Capulet.

Of all the people he might expect a message like that from, Tybalt Capulet would have been right at the bottom of the list. Oh, he knew how Tybalt had gotten his number - he’d jokingly programmed it into the irritated Capulet’s phone himself only a couple of weeks before when they’d both been at some boring trade function Mercutio’s uncle had been holding that involved a lot of standing around being polite to visiting functionaries they’d never see again, a complete contrast to this evening’s extravaganza; Tybalt had been dragged along by his own uncle to that one, and Mercutio had cornered him reading a book on the phone’s large screen. Romeo had been out of town for a couple of days so teasing Tybalt by snatching the phone and insisting on putting his name in Tybalt’s contacts had relieved his boredom for - oh, all of thirty seconds at least. Tybalt had snatched the phone back quickly enough but not before Mercutio had sent himself a text from Tybalt’s phone to grab his number.

He’d enjoyed winding Tybalt up over the past couple of weeks by sending him random texts and the occasional picture. Oddly Tybalt hadn’t bothered blocking his number, and some of his replies seemed to hint that maybe Tybalt even found the game mildly amusing. The last thing he’d expected was to get a text like this from him though.

He found a quiet corner and leaned against a statue in the garden behind an overhang of wisteria.

_“Sure you haven’t gotten the wrong number, o Prince of Cats?”_ His finger skimmed lightly over the touch screen and hit “send”. He waited, expectantly - Tybalt was nothing if not swift in his responses, irked though they may be - but there was no reply.

Mercutio’s frown deepened. He bit his lip unconsciously as he pondered. He could go back to the party, find Romeo and Benvolio and forget all about Tybalt’s strange request. He could show them the text and they could all three go and take the piss out of Tybalt for whatever predicament he may have gotten himself into - he had no doubt they’d both be more than up for a little Capulet baiting.

Or... he could indulge his wild curiosity over what could possibly have possessed Tybalt to reach out to _him_ , of all people.

His fingers skipped over the touchscreen. _“Where are you?”_

Once again, there was no answer. Mercutio chewed his lip thoughtfully, his curiosity now thoroughly piqued. If Tybalt were deliberately trying to arouse his interest, he’d certainly succeeded; he’d have to concede that the raven-haired Capulet was almost as good at this game as he was. Which would never do of course, and he’d have to find a way to up his game. He grinned, his earlier boredom forgotten.

His fingers skimmed over the touchscreen of his smartphone, switching on bluetooth then skimming through the app menu until he found the one he wanted. A moment later he was studying a map with a glowing blue arrow indicating the location of Tybalt’s phone - and it was only two streets away. He grinned then pocketed his phone before heading towards the wall of the garden. One foot pushed off the back of an ornate bench, the other pushing off the ivy-covered wall and then his hands grasped the smooth stone coving of the wall and he was up and dropping down into the quiet street outside and away, none the wiser. He doubted anyone would miss him; Romeo and Benvolio were both more than halfway drunk when he’d last seen them an hour ago, and his uncle would be too busy to care. The night was his.

His long legs carried him swiftly through the darkened streets, and it wasn’t long before he was on the road where the map had identified Tybalt’s phone. His eyes scanned the deserted road then fell upon a dark figure sitting hunched over on a bench a few feet away. Mercutio bounded over triumphantly and he stood in front of the figure.

“You could have made it a challenge at least!” he taunted.

Tybalt straightened slightly, his eyes lifting slowly from the ground at his feet to stare at Mercutio’s knees. His movements were slow and hesitant and his gaze seemed distant and vacant, and Mercutio wondered if he was drunk. The raven-haired Capulet frowned. “What are you doing here?” he said irritably.

“You sent me a text, remember?” said Mercutio. 

“Why on earth would I have done that? Go away,” said Tybalt, his frown deepening, not lifting his gaze.

Mercutio pulled out his phone, calling up the text. “ _‘Please come get me.’_ \- it’s your number, Tybalt.” He read out the number, and Tybalt’s expression gave way to confusion.

“No, I didn’t - I don’t -” He put a hand to his forehead.

“See for yourself!” said Mercutio, thrusting the phone in Tybalt’s face. Tybalt slapped his hand away clumsily, his ire growing.

“I can’t!” he snapped, and then turned his face away.

“What do you mean, you can’t?” exclaimed Mercutio. “Really Tybalt, you’re being -” He broke off and stared at the slender man who was staring blankly, head turned a little away, pressing the palm of his hand against his forehead as he swallowed hard. Something was very wrong here. He shoved the phone into his pocket then reached down and pulled Tybalt to his feet, all thoughts of teasing him forgotten for the moment.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly, his voice serious.

“Don’t touch me!” snarled Tybalt as he tried to pull away. “Why should you care? Just leave me b-” He broke off with a gasp and then threw his head back as his eyes rolled back until Mercutio could barely see a sliver of white between quivering dark eyelashes. His back stiffened as he arched backwards, and he would have fallen if Mercutio had not already had an arm around his shoulder. Tybalt’s arms drew up towards his chest, hands curled inwards and he made an odd clicking sound in the back of his throat before suddenly his body spasmed convulsively, his legs kicking out uncontrollably.

Mercutio swore and hastily lowered Tybalt to the ground as his body continued to jerk and tremble, his hands shaking as he clutched them to his chest. Mercutio was at a complete loss as to what to do. He’d heard rumours that the young blade of the Capulets suffered the falling sickness but he’d never seen it for himself; all he could do was kneel on the hard ground, cradling Tybalt’s head loosely, uncertain if he should try to restrain him or simply watch to be certain he didn’t hurt himself. He didn’t appear to be conscious, which perhaps was some small mercy.

The fit lasted perhaps two minutes before Tybalt went limp, hands resting laxly upon his chest, legs sprawled upon the ground where they had fallen. The heels of his boots were scuffed where he had drummed them against the concrete in the throes of the seizure, and a little blood trickled from the corner of his slack mouth where he had evidently bitten his tongue.

Mercutio stared down at the unconscious Tybalt, more than a little shaken and unnerved. After a moment, he reached down and cautiously shook Tybalt’s shoulder.

“Tybalt?”

There was no response at first; he shook Tybalt’s shoulder again, then patted his cheek. 

“Tybalt, can you hear me?”

Tybalt groaned and turned his face away a little from the touch, his eyelids fluttering.

“Tybalt?”

Tybalt opened his eyes slowly, blinking in confusion. He lay still for a moment then tried to lift his head. “Where... where am I? What....” 

“Hush, lie still a moment,” said Mercutio, his voice gentle. “You had some kind of fit.”

Tybalt groaned and closed his eyes. “Not again,” he sighed. After a moment he opened his eyes again and glanced round. “Where am I? How did I get here?” 

“Two streets away from the palace,” answered Mercutio. “I guess you walked.”

“I did?” said Tybalt, confused. He stared up at Mercutio, seemingly too dazed to be irked at his presence for once. “Help me up.”

Mercutio helped him sit up then steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. Tybalt seemed quite unlike himself, disoriented and quiet. For once, Mercutio felt no inclination to tease or torment him; it was evident the young Capulet was not himself, and it would have been unsporting to take advantage. The evening had taken quite an unexpected turn, and whatever Mercutio may have anticipated when he vaulted the garden wall this certainly was not it.

Mercutio got to his feet, hauling Tybalt up with him, then pulled Tybalt’s arm around his shoulders as Tybalt swayed but said nothing as Mercutio slipped a hand around his waist. Mercutio nodded in the direction of the palace, and Tybalt obediently stumbled forward, leaning into Mercutio as he let his head droop.

Yes, Tybalt Capulet was decidedly not himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Tybalt’s footsteps grew increasingly unsteady as they drew closer to the palace, his face drawn with pain as he clutched at his head with his free hand. Every time he stumbled he couldn’t quite hold back a choked moan. The distance that had flown past in short minutes when Mercutio had passed this way alone seemed to creep past all too slowly at Tybalt’s halting pace.

The dark-haired Capulet stumbled again and then pulled away from Mercutio to brace his forearm against the wall of a nearby house as he vomited, bending over as his stomach twisted and spasmed. Mercutio stared at him for a moment then stepped in close to his side to lift the long inky hair away from Tybalt’s pale face as he gasped for breath and fought to control his unsteady stomach. Mercutio kept a hand in the silky hair as he braced Tybalt with his other hand, holding him up.

Tybalt made a faint sound of annoyance and jerked his head away from Mercutio’s touch then blanched as he slumped against the wall.

“What’s wrong?” asked Mercutio.

“My head is splitting,” Tybalt managed to get out between gritted teeth. “I can barely think straight.”

“What do you need?” asked Mercutio. Tybalt laughed mirthlessly.

“Why do you care what is the matter with me or what I need?” he groaned. “When have you ever cared except to torment me? Why should I give you further ammunition against me?”

“You’re the one who asked _me_ for help,” pointed out Mercutio.

“And I tell you I have no memory of doing any such thing!” snapped Tybalt as his eyes flew open and he regarded Mercutio with impotent fury, his eyes glittering darkly in the moonlight. He abruptly pushed himself away from the wall but took only two halting steps before his knees gave way. Mercutio caught him before he could hit the ground; Tybalt pushed weakly at him but the Prince’s nephew ignored him, hauling him back to his feet and slinging his arm around Tybalt’s waist once more. After a moment’s futile struggle, Tybalt gave up in exhaustion and allowed Mercutio to half-carry, half-drag him on along the road, his head dropping onto Mercutio’s shoulder.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked in quiet defeat.

“You’re in no fit state to get back to the Capulet estate like this. You’ll stay at the palace tonight.”

“No,” protested Tybalt weakly. “I can’t be seen like this -”

“There’s a servant’s entrance round here, no-one will see us. No-one important, anyway,” shrugged Mercutio as he pulled Tybalt towards a low gateway, ignoring the two guards who stared ahead, deliberately blind to the Prince’s nephew and his companion.

No-one paid more than a passing glance to Mercutio as he pulled Tybalt with him through the kitchens and off down a side passage. Tybalt baulked at the bottom of a narrow spiral staircase, staring up the dark steps with a slight shake of the head. 

“I... I can’t, I haven’t the energy left -” he broke off with a faint huff of breath as Mercutio rolled his eyes and then dropped his shoulder, pulling Tybalt’s arm firmly as he hefted. The scion of House Capulet found himself being carried over Mercutio’s shoulder in a fireman’s lift as the Prince’s nephew started up the stairs with grim determination. He would have protested but was distracted as he felt the blood rushing to his head in a wave of dizziness and he swooned.

He was only half conscious when Mercutio laid him down upon his bed, unresponsive, eyes half-closed. He roused slightly when he felt the other man tug his boots off.

“What...what are you doing?” he managed to slur as he opened his eyes with difficulty.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” retorted Mercutio as he tossed the boots into the corner then pulled Tybalt upright and tugged off his coat before letting Tybalt sink back against the pillows. He tugged Tybalt’s shirt loose from his pants then reached for his belt buckle but Tybalt retained enough presence of mind to clutch at Mercutio’s wrists.

“No!” he objected.

“No?” echoed Mercutio then shrugged and released the buckle. Tybalt eyed him distrustfully for a minute longer before releasing him.

“Why are you doing this?” asked Tybalt, his eyes narrowed as he lifted one hand to rub his temple.

“Why not?” threw back Mercutio in challenge as he turned away towards a side cabinet. Pulling out a couple of glasses, he splashed a couple fingers of brandy in each then approached the bed and held one out to Tybalt.

Tybalt stared at the glass then grudgingly took it as Mercutio smirked slightly. “You’re enjoying seeing me like this, don’t deny it,” muttered Tybalt before sipping cautiously. He swallowed, savouring the brandy in spite of himself, then lowered the glass as he closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with his fingers. His head was throbbing in time with his heartbeat and the room was too bright. His whole body ached and he wanted nothing more than to be safe back in his own room in the dark, able to sleep.

“I am amused in spite of myself, it’s true, but not in spite - or out of it either,” Mercutio shot back as he perched on the edge of the bed near Tybalt’s feet. He grinned and ran the back of his forefinger nail up the length of Tybalt’s narrow foot; the Capulet jumped and pulled his foot away with a jerk as his eyes snapped open.

“You mock me, and I have neither the energy nor the inclination for your riddles,” he snapped peevishly. “My head aches and I am too exhausted for your games, Escalus! What do you want?”

“Your health, nothing more, good Tybalt,” replied Mercutio as he raised his glass and tilted it towards Tybalt in toast before downing it in one. 

Tybalt let his head fall back onto the pillow with a low sigh as he closed his eyes. “I am too tired for this,” he muttered to himself.

“Then sleep,” suggested Mercutio. He leaned forward and plucked the glass from Tybalt’s hand; Tybalt opened his eyes briefly with a small frown then closed them again. As Mercutio watched, his face presently grew slack, the frown and lines of pain smoothed away as he sank into sleep.

Mercutio tossed back the last of Tybalt’s brandy then moved slowly around the room as he undressed. It was late, he could hear the party winding down and he felt no desire to go out once more and mingle with the last drunken revellers. 

He tugged his shoes off and threw them aside heedlessly before pulling off his shirt and letting it fall where it may. He poured himself another glass of brandy before making his way back to the bed to stare down at the sleeping Tybalt.

In sleep, Tybalt’s face was much changed; smooth and unlined, no longer frowning or brooding, the corners of his mouth tugged down by a weight beyond his years but instead relaxed, with almost an air of youthful vulnerability. Absently Mercutio reached out to brush an errant strand of soft black hair away from Tybalt’s sleeping eyes, his fingers continuing of their own accord to lightly stroke down the side of the unconscious man’s face. 

Even in sleep, Tybalt flinched away from his touch. Mercutio snatched his hand back as though Tybalt’s skin burned, then shrugged. 

Why _had_ he brought Tybalt back here to his own room? In truth, he could not have said. He had always found Tybalt fascinating, drawn to orbit about him, claiming the slender raven-haired Capulet’s attention with barbed darts and baited looks like some ill-mannered brat who, deprived of a parent’s love and affection, will act out instead because after all, attention is attention and Mercutio never could abide to be ignored. Was Mercutio a brat? Of a certainty - and indeed he boasted as much, and if he could not have the love of everyone around him then at least he could never claim to be starved for their attention.

But Tybalt had always resisted his charms, teasing and flirtations; he had ignored him much as he might a stinging gadfly, and with much the same effect - it had only infuriated Mercutio into goading him further and with sharper tongue. It was all a game to Mercutio nonetheless, though one in which Tybalt had always been but a reluctant player.

But as Mercutio paused and stared back at Tybalt sprawled asleep atop the covers upon his bed - and ah, the deliciousness of the prospect of Tybalt’s wrath when the initial confusion would wear off come morning and he realised where he was! - if he were honest with himself (and though Mercutio would be the first to admit lies slipped from his quicksilver tongue as easily as the truth, like birds taking wing or butterflies darting away from a clumsy hand, he was always honest with himself) then he would admit to having felt just the slightest _frisson_ of anticipation and - yes, he would allow - fondness surge within himself when he recognised Tybalt’s number on his phone as well as irritation (for Tybalt had not followed the rules of the game; he had caught Mercutio wrong-footed by being the one to initiate contact and that felt strange, off-kilter, and Mercutio did not like it when others changed the rules to his little games).

Still, whatever the morn may bring, it was of a certainty that it would at least not be boring. Mercutio could not abide being bored any more than he could stomach being ignored, but whatever Tybalt’s reaction on waking, it could be counted upon to not be _boring_.

With that thought he tossed back the rest of his brandy. He set the glass aside and stripped off his pants before sliding into bed on the side furthest away from Tybalt, and was shortly fast asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

He drifted slowly towards waking, his body relaxed and limp. The blinding headache had receded to a dull pressure in the back of his skull, threatening but not actually painful. His body ached, every muscle protesting the least incautious movement. It was easier to lie there, eyes closed, feeling the warmth of a stray sunbeam playing across his face as he lay supine; his only movement the beating of his heart and the slow yet steady rise and fall of his chest with each breath. The room was blissfully silent save for the sounds of breathing.

It took him a moment to realise what was strange. And then it dawned upon him: he was not alone.

His eyes flew open and he turned his head upon the pillow to stare straight into a pair of mischievous blue eyes. Mercutio grinned at him before stretching slowly and languorously; he had evidently been awake for some time. He was dressed in a red t-shirt and black jeans though seemingly he’d not bothered taming his wild ginger hair - or perhaps he had; with Mercutio one could never be entirely certain.

“Prince of cats indeed; I swear you even purr in your sleep,” he teased.

“What are you doing in my room?” exclaimed Tybalt as he sat up. “How did you-” He broke off as it dawned upon him that this was not, in fact, his room; and then he froze as his body protested the sudden movement, a stabbing lance of pain pulsing briefly through his head. Something in his face, some flicker of discomfort in his eyes must have given him away, because Mercutio sat up, his expression contrite as he leaned forward to gently press Tybalt back against the pillows.

“Wait here, I’ll get something for your head,” he said as he leapt from the bed and headed for the door.

“Wait!” called Tybalt. “Where am I?”

“You don’t remember last night?” replied Mercutio.

Tybalt frowned. “Snatches... nothing clear.”

“You had a fit in the street. I brought you here as it was quicker than trying to get you all the way across town to your uncle’s estate. You don’t remember?” Mercurio leaned against the door frame, openly curious.

Tybalt shook his head cautiously, wary of worsening the throbbing in his head. “Very little.”

“Just stay there, I’ll be back in a moment,” promised Mercutio.

Tybalt lay back and pondered. He was used to his memories being fuzzy or a blank for an interval before and after a fit. There’d been more than one occasion that he’d blacked out somewhere only to find he’d been carried home and put to bed, only the crushing migraine and the ache in his limbs lingering to remind him of what must happened. This was the first time he’d woken in a strange bedroom however, and of all the rooms to awaken in this would rank as pretty much bottom of his list. He couldn’t fathom why on earth Mercutio should have troubled himself to help him; it were not as though they could be considered friends, after all.

In lieu of anything better to do, Tybalt awaited Mercutio's return with little grace and even less patience. Despite sleep, he still felt tired, drained and wan. He needed food but he'd be damned if he'd beg breakfast.

He glanced listlessly around the bedroom, mildly curious in spite of himself. The room held no clue as to the identity of its inhabitant; in fact it felt much like a bedroom in one of the city’s more opulent hotels. There were no personal touches at all in the room; the only sign Mercutio had spent any time here was his dark red leather jacket thrown carelessly in a corner and his shoes by a closet door. By contrast, Tybalt’s long black leather coat hung from a coathanger hooked over a handle of a cupboard over the wardrobe, his boots set neatly below. It seemed Mercutio spent little time in his room, and were it not for Mercutio’s jacket and shoes Tybalt would have assumed he was in one of the palace’s numerous guest rooms. 

Unless this _was_ a guest room and Mercutio had chosen to spend the night here with him instead of in his own quarters. Tybalt found himself uneasy and disconcerted by the conflicted emotions that thought stirred within him: curiosity, alarm and yet also something that might have been gratitude, possibly something more-

No. It was simple gratitude for Mercutio having treated him with decency instead of taking advantage of his weakened state, no more, he told himself as he pushed himself upright and swung his long legs over the side of the bed. He paused as a warning lance of pain pulsed through his head, and swore under his breath at how his body was yet again betraying him. He didn’t have time for this. He needed to get out of here, get back to his own home, the sanctuary of his own room where he had medicines and could retreat into his own bed and sleep away the last of the migraine and forget all about a certain nephew of the Prince and his mysterious motives for helping him.

The door opened, almost as though merely thinking of Mercutio had summoned him. He strode in with a tray balanced on one hand then paused as he took in the sight of Tybalt hunched over on the edge of the bed, massaging his temples with long pale fingers.

“Leaving so soon?” he quipped as he set the tray down on a nearby table, kicking the door closed with a bare foot. “I will not hear of it, my prince of cats - would you deprive me of your charming wit and presence so soon?”

“I’d sooner not grace you with it at all,” growled Tybalt. He stared at the glass of water Mercutio held out to him, then grudgingly took it before glancing at the two small white tablets in Mercutio’s other hand.

“Don’t look so suspicious; they’re just painkillers,” said Mercutio. “You look like you need them.”

“What I _need_ ,” Tybalt ground out between gritted teeth, “is to be as far away from you as possible, in peace and quiet and above all _silence_.” He took the tablets and knocked them back with a mouthful of water.

Mercutio stepped back and gave Tybalt an elaborate bow then mimed drawing a zip across his mouth with a grin before turning to the tray and presenting it to the other man. It was set with a large cafetiere of fresh coffee, a small jug of cream, a dish of brown sugar and two cups. Tybalt scowled but reached for the pot, pouring himself a cup of black coffee before waving the tray away.

Mercutio arched one eyebrow and the corner of his lip twitched as though he itched to make some quip but he restrained himself as he fixed himself a cup of coffee with both cream and sugar, eyeing Tybalt as he stirred in two spoons of sugar then slowly and deliberately added a third. Tybalt merely rolled his eyes at Mercutio then sipped at his own cup. It was bitter, strong and good - as perhaps he should have expected in the Prince’s palace.

Mercutio sat back in the chair and lifted one leg to rest his ankle on his knee as he watched Tybalt, who resisted the urge to squirm under the silent scrutiny. Somehow Mercutio’s silence was, if anything, actually worse than his prattling, but he was damned if he was going to tell the other man that.

Tybalt got to his feet and crossed to where his coat hung, fishing his phone out from the inside breast pocket and ignoring Mercutio. He knew he was being rude but didn’t care as he flipped open the leather case and flicked his thumb across the screen to awaken it. He frowned as he noted three unread messages, two of them from Mercutio. He flicked his eyes up from the screen to stare at Mercutio who merely smiled maddeningly at him and silently saluted him with his cup of coffee.

Scowling, Tybalt dropped his gaze back to the screen. The other unread message was from Juliet; he opened that one first.

_Where are you? Nurse says you didn’t come home last night and everyone is worried. Mother wants to call the guard but Father won’t let her. Are you alright? - J xxx_

Juliet had noticed. She was worried for him. He felt a pang of guilt as he hit “reply”. _Am fine, will be home shortly. Sorry._ He hit “send” then fretted that perhaps he’d been too terse. No matter, he would seek her out when he got home and reassure her all was well.

Mercutio raised an eyebrow in mute query but Tybalt shook his head and turned away, sipping his coffee as he opened the two messages from Mercutio. He stared at the conversation and froze.

“I... I messaged you?” he said slowly in disbelief, before turning towards Mercutio. “I messaged _you_?”

Mercutio shrugged and mimed pulling the zip across his mouth again. Tybalt rolled his eyes.

“Speak, damn you.”

Mercutio grinned and leapt to his feet. “Believe me, I was as surprised as you - I would have thought I was the last person you would ask for help.”

“You are,” stated Tybalt flatly.

“Evidently not,” replied Mercutio as he came to stand beside Tybalt and crane his neck to peer at the screen, draping his free arm around Tybalt’s shoulders. “Sent from your own phone by your own fair hand, my dear Tybalt.”

Tybalt shrugged him off irritably and set his cup down on the tray. “I’m going home,” he said tersely as he reached for his boots.

“As you wish,” shrugged Mercutio. He poured himself another cup of coffee as Tybalt shrugged into his coat. The slender dark-haired man paused at the door then whirled round, his face an impassive mask. 

“If you should tell anyone of what happened last night -” he began, pointing an accusing finger at Mercutio.

“I shall tell no-one,” replied Mercutio, his face and voice both serious, not a hint of mirth in either. Tybalt stared at him mistrustfully, then slowly nodded before turning on his heel and leaving.

For some reason, Tybalt believed Mercutio, though he could not have said why. Perhaps it was the look in those grave blue eyes as he turned away; sympathetic, but without pity.


	4. Chapter 4

Mercutio didn’t see Tybalt again for several weeks after that. In fact the Prince’s nephew began to suspect the taciturn Capulet might actually be avoiding him. He told himself he cared not whether Tybalt had decided to hide himself away out of embarrassment; there was mischief to be had with his friends, parties to invade, maidens to taunt, fights to be had and wenches to be bedded (and not a few lads either; Mercutio was nothing if not generous with his affections and what lay between the legs of whomsoever he was bedding at any given time was in general of very much secondary importance). 

The summer was hot and sultry; humid golden days blending into tawny evenings that lingered for hours as the sky shaded into violet hues and thence into uncomfortably warm nights in which the sheets plastered themselves to sweaty skin, winding around his restless body as he tossed and turned, too hot to sleep and mind too quicksilver for peace. Invariably he would find himself pacing like some caged cat through the darkened streets of the slumbering city, looking for something he could not have named.

The air was close, pregnant with threat and yet though clouds would gather of an evening, they held only false promise and were fled with the heat of the morning sun like the fickle kisses of the whores he pushed away. 

A faint rumble of thunder vibrated through the air as he turned yet another corner; he paid it no head. The storm had rumbled impotently distant all evening but no rain fell to grace the parched dust he stirred up with each step. He had been walking for a couple of hours, the palace far distant. He had paid little attention to his direction, careless of his own safety. He almost hoped some fool _would_ chance their hand and try mugging him for what little cash he carried - perhaps his phone; he was gripped by a fey mood this evening and he would have welcomed a fight - relished it, in fact. It must have shown on his face however, because he passed unaccosted. Even the whores’ catcalls and invitations were lackluster and desultory, performed out of perfunctory habit rather than with any real effort to entice; their eyes were dull and bored, the humidity draining their vitality. They resembled painted dolls more than real women.

He paused as he turned onto the next square, glancing around to get his bearings. The high wall nearby seemed familiar; noting an olive tree growing nearby, its branches overhanging the wall, he headed towards it and acting on whim he swung himself easily up into the tree and onto the wall. As he thought; he was at the rear of the Capulet mansion, the ornately-manicured gardens shaded in hues of blue and grey under the fleeting moonlight that peered out between the skudding stormclouds. There were few lights on in the house at this early hour of the morning, but his eyes were drawn to one set of windows at the end of one wing. Someone was up, and from the shadow that passed across the yellow rectangles of light they found sleep as elusive as he did. As Mercutio dropped down into the garden and started to make his way towards the lights, the light brightened as a dark figure emerged onto a balcony.

Mercutio grinned; he would have recognised that tall gangly figure anywhere. His strides unconsciously lengthened as he headed across the close-cropped lawn towards the balcony. Tybalt didn’t see him; the dark-clad Capulet’s face was tilted up towards the sky, his face almost ghostly pale in the moonlight.

Tybalt leaned upon the stone balustrade of the balcony, his hands braced against the smooth cool surface as he breathed in the night air. Even alone and believing himself unobserved, there was an air of tension about him as he stood there stiffly. A faint breeze stirred the dark hair about his face, lifting it from his shoulders and tugging at his black shirt, but he was otherwise motionless. He could almost have been carved from the same stone he leaned upon.

 _In for a penny, in for a pound._ Mercutio was already guilty of trespass; he may as well find what amusement he could, and Tybalt was rarely disappointing in that regard. He began to scale the twisting wisteria vines that grew over the walls of the house, moving as quietly as possible. The rising night wind and ominous rumble of distant thunder helped mask his climb, and Tybalt jumped most gratifyingly when Mercutio swung his leg over the stone rail next to him.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he quipped as Tybalt recoiled, one hand darting instinctively to where his blade customarily hung before he glanced down to where his hand closed on nothing, a look of annoyance crossing his face as he recalled he’d taken it off earlier.

“What, is the cat quite unclawed then?” asked Mercutio with a grin as he swung his other leg over the balustrade then sat there regarding Tybalt with an eyebrow arched.

“What are you doing here?” snarled Tybalt. “How dare you!”

“Glad to see you too,” replied Mercutio as he shrugged and dropped down onto the balcony. “Aren’t you going to say hello?”

“No,” replied Tybalt tersely. “What do you want?”

“Thought I’d drop in and pay you a visit. Did you miss me?” asked Mercutio as he took a step towards Tybalt.

“No. Why would I?” retorted the other man as he straightened, not giving way as Mercutio took another step towards him. Tybalt inclined his head slightly to one side. “What are you doing?”

Mercutio paused and smiled. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he taunted.

“No more than any of that rabble you run around with,” Tybalt shrugged. “Which is to say, not at all. Where you go and what you do is no concern of mine - apart from when you decide to trespass in my own home. You have some nerve, Escalus, coming here like that.”

“I was curious,” replied Mercutio as he slowly walked around Tybalt, glancing curiously through the open balcony doors into the room beyond. “You’ve seen my room, after all. Doesn’t my hospitality merit the courtesy of an invitation in return?”

“I did not ask for your hospitality,” replied Tybalt stiffly. “Wait - that was your room? I’d assumed -”

“- that it was a guest room?” finished Mercutio as he paused in the doorway and glanced back at Tybalt. He smiled a strange lopsided smile - half wistful, half bitter. “Yes, I suppose you would. Most usually do. May I?”

“It seems I can hardly stop you, even when uninvited,” sniffed Tybalt.

Mercutio stepped back from the doorway and gestured with one hand. “May I?” he repeated quietly.

Tybalt stared at him as he made his way to the door and stepped through. He rested one hand against the ornately-curled door handle as though to shut the door in Mercutio’s face, but paused as he stared at the ginger-haired man who merely watched him. His intent green eyes met and were held by Mercutio's piercing blue gaze; and then his hand fell away from the door handle as he slowly nodded and stepped back, gesturing for Mercutio to enter. He turned away as Mercutio stepped into the room, and he made his way towards a black lacquered drinks cabinet.

Mercutio glanced around the room, and reflected that even without Tybalt’s presence he thought he would have known this to be his room. Heavy dark velvet curtains draped across the windows, matching the curtains that hung about the large dark wooden bed. The carpet beneath his feet was thick and soft, muffling his footsteps as he moved into the room and looked around. The lamps were low, their light a soft muted glow - restful for tired, oversensitive eyes. The room was lined with bookshelves, except for one that was hung with a collection of ornate rapiers and daggers. 

Something near his feet mewed imperiously and Mercutio glanced down as a sleek black cat twined around his legs before stalking over towards Tybalt who was pouring something from a decanter into a pair of glasses. The cat mewed again then leapt up onto the arm of a wingback chair; Tybalt absently rubbed it behind the ears before turning to offer a glass to Mercutio.

“So the prince of cats has a minion!” remarked Mercutio as he took the glass. 

“Marlowe?” replied Tybalt as he glanced down at the cat. “He’s not mine. He belongs to Juliet; he just likes to stay with me sometimes when I -” He broke off and took a sip from his glass.

“When you are unwell?” asked Mercutio gently. He took a sip from his own glass and found it was very good brandy. Better than the stuff his uncle liked to serve, he reflected. 

Tybalt looked up sharply; there was no mockery in the look of open empathy Mercutio’s face held. After a little while he visibly relaxed slightly and nodded slowly. “Yes. When I am unwell.” He watched Mercutio, his eyes still wary as he leaned against the cabinet. “Why are you here?” he asked again.

“I told you: I was curious,” shrugged Mercutio. He wandered over to the bed and sat on the edge, glancing up at the bed canopy as he took another mouthful of brandy before lying back and staring up. There was a design worked in the dark velvet brocade; he squinted a little, trying to make it out.

“Is that all I am to you? A curiosity?” asked Tybalt bitterly. Mercutio sat up.

“Oh no,” he began, but got no further as the room was suddenly lit up by a brilliant blue-white flash of light, followed almost immediately by a deafening crack of thunder so loud the windows shook in their frames. Tybalt flinched at the sound, spilling brandy as the black cat’s ears flattened against its skull and it yowled in protest, the sound drowned out as another lightning strike followed hard on the heels of the first. Tybalt rose to his feet and set his glass aside before crossing to the balcony doors swiftly and throwing them shut, yanking the thick velvet drapes across the glass panes. The thick velvet muffled the sound as the heavens opened and hailstones began to bounce and ping off the balcony and windows.

Tybalt turned and pressed his back against the velvet drapes. “Go ahead. Say it,” he said in a low dangerous voice. “You think me a coward, afraid of a storm like some small child. Go on, say it.”

Mercutio shook his head. “No. I don’t, actually.” He set aside the brandy glass as he stood up. “Unlike some, I have eyes to see with and the wit to see what’s plain before my face.” He walked slowly towards Tybalt. “You had another fit - last night, perhaps?”

“How did you know?” asked Tybalt, narrowing his eyes distrustfully.

Mercutio turned and gave the cat a courteous bow; the cat blinked its golden eyes at him impassively then turned its attention back to Tybalt as did Mercutio.

“The cat bears mute witness. You have been... unwell. I know you suffer migraines after a seizure; you flinched from pain, not fear.” He stepped closer still, close enough to touch Tybalt if he so wished. “It’s not the storm you’re afraid of,” he said quietly.

“I am afraid of nothing!” snarled Tybalt, his back pressed against the doors still, unable to retreat.

“No?” replied Mercutio softly, an unfathomable look in his eyes. Then he closed the distance between them and threaded one hand into Tybalt’s hair.

As Tybalt froze in shock, Mercutio closed his eyes and bent forward to kiss his pale lips.


	5. Chapter 5

He was frozen in shock, momentarily too stunned to react as Mercutio’s lips pressed against his own, warm and soft. Mercutio’s eyes were half-lidded, a look of faint amusement dancing in those azure depths. Tybalt was acutely aware of the balcony door draped in velvet at his back, the fuzzy nap of the fabric under his fingers and then pressed into his palm as his hands spasmodically clenched in the folds of velvet, anchoring him to the here and now; Mercutio’s breath upon his skin even as his own seemed to cease. A touch of wetness upon his lips as Mercutio’s tongue darted out between his teeth to tease and taste his surprise.

That last was enough to shock him into life again and he jerked his head back with a half-vocalised sound of denial, Mercutio’s fingers catching in his hair even as Tybalt fumbled through the folds of velvet for the elusive door handle. It gave beneath his hand and suddenly he was stumbling backwards into the sultry night air, drenched through by the icy rain even as he staggered back to the rail. He clutched at the wet stone and gasped, shaking wet hair out of his eyes as he stared back at Mercutio.

“Why?” he finally managed. “Have you utterly taken leave of your senses?”

Mercutio pouted. “Was I really that bad?”

“Yes! I mean - no, it wasn’t -” Tybalt’s face darkened from confusion to a familiar anger as Mercutio laughed, unable to help himself. “Damn you, Escalus!”

“I’m sorry,” chuckled Mercutio, unrepentant as he shrugged, leaning against the door frame. The light from the room behind him outlined his tall form in a golden halo, his hair turned to flame. He gave Tybalt a lopsided smile as he rested his head against the painted wood. “I couldn’t help myself. You should see the look on your face.”

Tybalt merely glared at him. “That’s all this is to you, isn’t it? One colossal joke. How very typical of you. Mercutio the clown. Mercutio the fool.” His lip curled in a sneer as the rain cascaded down his face, his eyes glittering darkly.

Mercutio’s grin only broadened though it did not reach his eyes; he straightened then gave Tybalt a mocking bow. “You see right through me, oh prince of cats,” he drawled. “How shall I make answer to that?”

“Don’t bother,” said Tybalt curtly. “You’ve had your fun. Get out.”

“You’re soaked through. You should come in before you catch a chill.”

“And why would you care for my health, Mercutio?” Tybalt didn’t move from his position by the balustrade as the pelting rain plastered his thin silk shirt against his wet body, his long black hair clinging to his face and shoulders. A gust of wind whipped at his sodden form and he abruptly shivered; he merely gritted his teeth and glared at Mercutio.

Mercutio’s smile dropped as his mirth left him, as quickly as it had come. “Damned stubborn Capulet; as bad as ever your father was,” he remarked quietly.

“You dog - you dare mention...!” snarled Tybalt as he flung himself towards Mercutio in rage.

He was soaked through, already chilled from the torrential icy rain yet afire with anger as he clutched at Mercutio; the Prince’s nephew was clearminded however as his hands lifted to grasp the other man’s slender wrists as Tybalt’s cold hands seized upon his biceps. Mercutio let himself be driven back into the room under the impetus of Tybalt’s fury, turning as they moved to sweep a leg around Tybalt’s ankle as he lifted his hip and then Tybalt was sprawled upon his back upon the bed and Mercutio was atop him, pinning him with his own body, and claiming his mouth with another kiss even as Tybalt’s lips parted to curse him.

Mercutio cupped Tybalt’s face between his hands as he invaded his mouth with his tongue; Tybalt’s eyes were wide with fury but Mercutio let his own fall closed as he explored and tasted fully of Tybalt’s mouth. The Capulet tasted of the brandy they had drunk and something else; something bitter yet spicy. _Like the man himself,_ thought Mercutio absently as he slipped a knee between Tybalt’s thighs, ignoring the hands that sought to push him away.

Tybalt’s body was suddenly wracked by a spasmodic shudder and Mercutio abruptly pulled away as he felt it, his eyes flying open as he stared down in consternation.

“Are you-” he began.

“Get off me!” growled Tybalt, glaring at him in fury as he shoved Mercutio away and then bit his lip as another shiver overtook him.

“Is it another fit?” asked Mercutio contritely as he got up off the bed.

“No, you ass, I’m soaked through and freezing!” retorted Tybalt as he slowly sat up, wrapping his long arms around himself. “Do use what little wit you have left, Escalus.” He bit his lip and tried to suppress the shivers that were coming frequently as icy rainwater ran from his hair down his neck and rolled down his back beneath the sodden silk shirt. “Go away. You’ve done enough and I refuse to be mocked by you any longer.”

“You need to get out of those wet things,” said Mercutio as he crossed to the balcony door and pulled it firmly shut. “Where are your towels?”

“What?” said Tybalt irritably as he started to unbutton his shirt, hampered by the involuntary shuddering of his body. His fingers were clumsy and numb with cold; though he had spent only a few minutes in the icy rain, it had stolen what heat his slender body possessed and his rage was already dulling, muted by cold. “The chest of drawers to your left. Second drawer.” The button finally co-operated and he was able to peel off the thin silk, letting it drop to the floor.

A large fluffy towel was suddenly dropped around his shoulders and he clutched at it with one hand as Mercutio shoved a snifter of brandy into his other hand. “Get that inside you,” suggested the red-head as he took a second towel and began to dry Tybalt’s hair.

“What are you doing? I thought I told you to get out?” growled Tybalt, nonetheless sipping the brandy.

“So you did - twice, in fact - and yet here I still am,” replied Mercutio as he worked the wetness out of Tybalt’s raven locks.

“I don’t understand you,” muttered Tybalt as he clutched at the towel and stared into the brandy.

“That makes two of us then,” Mercutio replied absently as he lowered the towel. Tybalt glanced up at him with a scowl of incomprehension as Mercutio sat down on the bed next to him. As Tybalt continued to stare at him, Mercutio finally returned his glance and shrugged ruefully.

“You are the most infuriating creature,” said Tybalt quietly.

“So I am often told,” replied Mercutio. He reached up and brushed an errant strand of damp hair out of Tybalt’s face, tucking it behind his ears; strangely, Tybalt didn’t flinch but merely regarded him quizzically.

“What do you want, Mercutio?” asked Tybalt quietly. “Why did you come here tonight?”

“I don’t know,” said Mercutio. “To see you.”

“Why?” insisted Tybalt.

“Maybe I’ve missed your presence,” quipped Mercutio. “Heaven knows why; you’re such poor company, always brooding and scowling - just as you’re doing now,” he added as Tybalt did exactly that, “Lurking around the place like some great black crow, blowing hot and cold, temper as mercurial as -”

“If my presence is so objectionable then please leave it!” snapped Tybalt as he made to rise, infuriated once more.

“Wait,” said Mercutio as he laid a hand on Tybalt’s shoulder and held him there. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. I didn’t come here to tease you.”

“You could have fooled me,” hissed Tybalt.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Mercutio’s eyes were full of contrition as he kept his hand on Tybalt’s shoulder. Tybalt regarded him mistrustfully but there was no mockery in Mercutio’s expression now, only sincerity. After a moment Tybalt’s shoulders slumped. 

“It is late and I am too tired for this nonsense,” he said quietly. “Say what you must and then go.”

“Forgive me,” said Mercutio, and he slid his hand along Tybalt’s shoulder to curl around the back of his neck as he closed his eyes and bent in to kiss Tybalt once more.

Maybe it was something in his tone, or maybe Tybalt was just too tired and cold to fight any more this evening, but this time the dark-haired man did not pull away. He let Mercutio slide closer, his other hand lifting to slide through the damp locks to cradle the back of Tybalt’s head as his tongue gently probed the cold lips. After a moment Tybalt parted his lips and sighed voicelessly into the kiss.

When Mercutio finally drew back for breath, he opened his eyes to see a strangely peaceful look upon Tybalt’s face, his eyes closed.

“Tybalt?” asked Mercutio quietly. Tybalt opened his eyes slowly, blinking, and Mercutio gave him a hesitant smile before leaning in to brush another light kiss across his lips. Tybalt turned his face towards the touch and chased Mercutio’s mouth with his own, the brandy forgotten as he lifted a hand to cup Mercutio’s cheek and kiss him in return.

“Tybalt -” began Mercutio as he pulled away again afterwards, but Tybalt laid a finger over his lips, silencing him.

“Shut. Up.”

He did as he was told.


	6. Chapter 6

If Mercutio was fire, then Tybalt was ice; his skin was cold to the touch and he shivered. Wherever Mercutio’s body pressed against his own, it burned with a feverish heat - all save his hands, strangely, which were almost as cold as Tybalt’s chilled skin. They were the only part that felt bearable, apart from his lips, his mouth which Tybalt couldn’t seem to get quite enough of. So strange; Tybalt was used to being the hot one, heat radiating from him; and yet now he felt cold, so very cold, as though the fire inside had been somehow quenched and he craved that heat, that burning touch rekindled.

And Mercutio seemed quite willing to oblige him, exchanging hungry kisses, their tongues duelling and vying for dominance even as Mercutio’s hands moved restlessly over Tybalt’s body. They ghosted low over his abdomen, and this time when they lingered upon his belt Tybalt did not push them away but instead let his long slender fingers rest lightly over Mercutio’s as he nodded silent permission. He lay back and let his head fall onto the pillows as Mercutio deftly unbuckled the belt and then he lifted his hips slightly so that the other man could strip off his sodden pants, peeling the damp fabric away from his pale legs.

Mercutio paused to stare down at the dark-haired man sprawled naked and shivering before him, and Tybalt suddenly felt acutely vulnerable. He opened his mouth to speak but found he couldn't, at a loss for words.

If Mercutio noticed his silence, he mercifully chose not to remark upon it or tease Tybalt. Instead he stripped off his own shirt swiftly before kicking off his shoes and then shucking his own pants before crawling slowly up the bed to stretch alongside Tybalt, lifting a hand to thread it into the damp black hair as he lifted a hip to slide his leg between Tybalt's thighs, his body radiating heat as it pressed against Tybalt's chilled skin. Tybalt shifted to press himself against that delicious warmth, craving it even as his mouth sought Mercutio's once more.

“So needy,” Mercutio breathed teasingly against Tybalt's lips.

“Don't,” whispered Tybalt. “Not tonight.”

“As you wish,” murmured the other man as he dipped his head to bite lightly along Tybalt's jaw. Tybalt arched his neck, baring it for Mercutio's sharp kisses, and though Mercutio chuckled quietly he said nothing. Instead he obligingly kissed down the long slender throat as he shifted to lie over Tybalt's body, slowly writhing downwards, his fingers stroking the cold skin as Tybalt shivered beneath him – whether from the chill or something more, Tybalt honestly could not have said at that point, even had speech not been already beyond him. He was only aware of the heat of Mercutio's body, contrasting with those cool hands that left his flesh tingling as they stroked and caressed him; the feel of the delicious heat of Mercutio's mouth as he worked his way down towards Tybalt's navel, the press of his weight upon Tybalt's groin as he shifted lower and the way that heat began to built in his abdomen as he felt his cock twitch and stir, trapped between their bodies.

Mercutio lifted himself slightly and then paused between Tybalt's legs, and Tybalt lifted his head to stare down at him mutely. Mercutio grinned, then turned his head very deliberately to stare pointedly at Tybalt's freed and erect cock. Tybalt blushed, feeling acutely self-conscious, unable to tear his gaze away from Mercutio.

Mercutio lifted himself up, his hands braced against the bed either side of Tybalt's hips, and his merry blue eyes met Tybalt's gaze. He gave him a wicked wink and then his lips parted. Tybalt bit his lip hard, biting back the cry that sprang unbidden to his lips as the head of his cock was suddenly engulfed in the delicious moist heat of Mercutio's mouth. He had to fight hard not to buck his hips up to meet that warmth but instead hold himself still as Mercutio's head sank down.

Tybalt let his head drop back onto the pillows and he let one hand drift to Mercutio's dishevelled red hair even as he pressed the back of his other hand against his mouth to stifle the involuntary little moans that escaped his lips in spite of himself as he felt Mercutio's tongue press against the underside of his shaft, licking a warm, wet stripe towards the tip before swirling around the head and then Mercutio swallowed him down again as Tybalt muffled a whimper. All conscious thought had fled; all he was aware of was the heat building in his groin and the sensations that Mercutio's ministrations were eliciting from his willing body. There was the hot, coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He didn't care. It didn't matter; nothing mattered except this moment, here and now.

Mercutio shifted slightly, lowering his left forearm to the bed and transferring his weight to it as he hooked his right arm beneath Tybalt's left knee. At a gently nudge, Tybalt obediently drew his knee up, his eyes glazed as he glanced down at Mercutio. The red-head lifted his mouth free of Tybalt's cock and Tybalt groaned.

“Patience,” murmured Mercutio then slipped two fingers into his own mouth, his lips reddened and swollen. He slicked them with his tongue then reached around beneath Tybalt as his head dipped and he swallowed down Tybalt's cock once more. Tybalt made a faint querying sound then drew in his breath sharply as he felt a fingertip brush his entrance. He stiffened at the unexpected touch, and Mercutio paused and lifted his head to stare up at Tybalt.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly. “We don't have to if you don't want -”

“No, it's... it's alright, I just... wasn't expecting it, is all,” replied Tybalt hoarsely. Mercutio withdrew his hand.

“Maybe not this time,” he said gently. “You're stiff and tense.” He leaned up and claimed Tybalt's lips with a kiss; Tybalt could taste himself, salty and a little bitter on Mercutio's tongue. Mercutio smiled reassuringly, then lowered himself back down again, curling his hand around the base of Tybalt's cock.

Tybalt gasped as Mercutio's head began to bob, working his flesh with an experienced tongue and hand. As the delicious friction and pressure upon his cock increased, Mercutio working his flesh faster and harder, his breath began to come stuttering in short pants and he writhed beneath Mercutio as he tried to restrain the urge to buck his hips up to meet each downstroke, fighting the desire to wantonly fuck Mercutio's mouth. He wordlessly urged him on faster with little breathless inarticulate pleas, the occasional _yes_ and _more_ punctuating his small cries as heat coiled in his belly and a drawing sensation in his balls told him he was drawing close to the edge. He tugged ineffectually at Mercutio's hair, trying to warn him of his impending climax, but this seemed to only serve to make the Prince's nephew go faster.

He came hard, his back arching as his body shuddered. Mercutio milked his cock for every last drop, swallowing his seed as Tybalt's body spasmed in the throes of climax before finally lying still and enervated, sated and drained. Tybalt could only lie there, exhausted, as his heart raced and his breath came in spasmodic gasps, only slowly returning to something approximating normal pace. 

Mercutio sat up and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, a satisfied grin on his face as he regarded how he'd utterly undone Tybalt. The dark-haired man was sprawled limply upon the bed, his eyes half-closed, a tired yet peaceful look upon his face. Sensing Mercutio's eyes upon him, Tybalt opened his eyes and glanced towards the other man, lips curving slowly in a rare smile.

“Well, well, you look just like the cat that got the cream – most strange, given I was the one doing the milking,” quipped Mercutio as he leaned back on his hands. “Would you like a taste?” He grinned, then leaned forward and crawled over Tybalt's supine body. He stared down into Tybalt's face then his head dipped down as Tybalt lifted his head for the kiss.

Tybalt cried out in shock a moment later as he felt Mercutio's teeth sink without warning into his already-bloodied lip, and he pushed him away abruptly, his peaceful look giving way to one of hurt anger. Mercutio sat back and giggled as Tybalt sat up, lifting a hand to dab at his bleeding lip with his fingers before staring at the blood upon his fingertips. He lifted his gaze to stare at Mercutio in hurt betrayal.

“Sorry, I just couldn't-” began Mercutio, but Tybalt cut him off.

“Get out. Now. Get out, and never come back. I never want to lay eyes on you again,” he snarled as he pushed himself away from Mercutio, who was no longer laughing.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't -”

“No, you shouldn't, but you did. Get. Out.”

Mercutio stared at Tybalt for a moment then dropped his gaze and nodded. He got to his feet silently and dressed without a word, tugging his shoes on before making his way to the balcony door. He tugged back the curtain and opened the door but paused to glance back at Tybalt, lips parting as if to speak. Whatever he had thought to say, it died unspoken under Tybalt's glare. 

Mercutio's shoulders slumped and he shook his head. He turned and stepped through the door and was gone.

Tybalt slumped back against the pillows and stared up at the black silk brocade roses that adorned the canopy of his bed, barely able to make them out in the half-light that ghosted through the open balcony door. He felt hurt, abused, betrayed and confused, his lip throbbing uneasily. 

After a while he rolled over onto his side and tugged the coverlet over his legs before wrapping his arms around his torso and drawing his knees up to his chest. He felt the edge of the bed dip slightly, and then a warm furry body curled up against his back, vibrating slightly as the black cat purred.

Tybalt let his breath go in a soft sigh and closed his eyes, sinking into a restless, uneasy sleep as the sun slowly rose over the silent city.


	7. Chapter 7

The sound of the bedroom door quietly clicking open stirred Tybalt from his slumber. As he slowly wakened, his consciousness rising from the depths of dreams with reluctance, he was aware of the warmth of the cat still curled against his back.

There was the soft scuff of a slippered foot on deep plush carpet, and Tybalt passed from drowsiness to fully awake in an instant. He lay still, his breathing still calm and even as he lay there, a stray beam of sunlight warm upon his skin, ears sharply attuned to the slightest noise. Though to the casual eye he may have appeared still deeply asleep, his body was tense and alert, one hand inching very slowly and silently beneath his pillow towards the unsheathed dagger he always kept there, the hilt reassuringly cold and hard against his palm as he curled his fingers around it.

The edge of the bed dipped slightly, then a faint scent of violets drifted to him and his lips curved in a slow smile in spite of himself as his fingers released the hilt of the knife. “Good morning, Juliet,” he remarked quietly.

His cousin laughed as he opened his eyes and glanced up at her. “I never could creep up on you,” she said ruefully. “I was certain you were asleep!”

“I was,” replied Tybalt as he uncurled himself and rolled over onto his back, stretching as the cat moved away with a yowl of complaint. “I'm awake now.”

Juliet drew in her breath sharply. “Tybalt, your lip – what happened?” She scooted closer to him across the bed and reached out a hand to gently touch his chin. He caught his breath as she bent over him, her long hair brushing against his skin, her wide eyes holding only an innocent concern as she regarded his bruised and bloodied lip, swollen and dark.

“I-it's nothing, I must have bitten it,” he said quietly as he drank in the sight of her. 

“Oh no, not another fit?” she asked in dismay as she reached up to tenderly brush his forehead lightly with her fingertips. “Should I bring you some tea? Have you taken your medication yet? Wait – let me close the curtain.” She turned away but Tybalt caught her wrist gently.

“No, it's fine. I -” He sat up, tugging the coverlet a little higher around his waist as his eyes dropped to his fingers curled around her slender wrist. He hastily snatched back his hand. “I'm sorry, forgive me – yes, tea would be good,” he said, giving her a quick, nervous smile. They were no longer children; Juliet was a grown woman now, and he felt uncomfortably aware of his nakedness beneath the coverlet. 

He felt an unaccountable twinge of guilt over how he had come to be naked in the first place, and as Juliet regarded him quizzically he was suddenly gripped by the paranoid fear that she could somehow see what had transpired between himself and Mercutio in this very room only a few hours previously. Had Mercutio left some mark upon his skin that Tybalt had been oblivious to? It would have been so like Mercutio to have marked him. His hand lifted unconsciously to his throat as he ducked his head so that his long hair fell forward and hid his face, mortified that perhaps Juliet had seen -

“Tybalt, dear cousin, you're not well. What's wrong?” Juliet turned and cupped his face in her hands so that he was forced to lift his face and return her gaze, but he read only familial concern in her gentle green eyes as she smiled gently at him. “Wait here, I shall bring you tea,” she said and bent to kiss him lightly on the forehead. Then she scrambled from the bed and was gone with a rustle of silk skirts, the scent of her perfume still floating in the space where she had been.

Tybalt sat there for a moment after she had gone, his body tense and rigid; and then he exhaled softly. He was a fool. He always had been, where Juliet was concerned; his favourite cousin, but over the past few years as womanhood had changed the curves of her body he had found it hard to regard her as he had in the past. He loved her as family – the only family he had now, in truth – but also something more. He would never breathe a word of it to her; though it was not unheard of for cousins to marry cousins (and indeed in some of the noble families it was encouraged and almost expected, though he did not think the Capulets were one such House), he doubted his uncle would view such a suit favourably.

After all, what did Tybalt have to offer? He was but one more Capulet blade; capable, yes – indeed there were few in Verona whose skill with a blade matched his own. He upheld the honour of House Capulet and killed in their name, and his own name was a curse word as often as not upon the lips of those who had earned the enmity of the Capulets. But Lord Capulet would wish more for his only daughter than a killer who was only little better than a hired blade and only shared their table through the grace of his aunt.

He had resigned himself to silence long ago; but though none knew just how ardently the love in his heart burned for Juliet, all knew he was fiercely devoted to and protective of her. No doubt one day he would have to step aside and surrender her protection to the suitor who would claim her hand, but for now his presence by her side kept the dogs at bay and for that his uncle was grudgingly grateful. Tybalt Capulet may be a disappointment to Lord Capulet – he would never inherit, that much had been made clear – but he could kill for him, and he could protect the virtue of his only child and for that he was tolerated.

He threw aside the coverlet and rose from the bed. Picking up the discarded sodden clothes from the previous evening, he tossed them into the laundry hamper then crossed to the wardrobe to dress perfunctorily. 

There was a knock at the door and then his manservant Peter entered; he seemed dismayed to find Tybalt had already dressed himself. 

“Sir, Miss Juliet informed me you are unwell?” he asked as he hastened to Tybalt's side with a pair of shoes.

“Not those; my boots. No – those ones,” directed Tybalt as he sat at the dressing table. “I am well enough.”

“You are going out Sir?” inquired Peter as he fetched the boots and knelt at Tybalt's feet to help him into them. He glanced up at Tybalt's face, a look of nervous concern crossing his features. “Should I fetch the doctor for your lip first?” He took up a comb and began to tidy Tybalt's hair, the silky-soft black strands falling neatly into place with each pass of the comb.

“No,” said Tybalt coldly, not sparing Peter a glance as he studied his own reflection in the glass. His bottom lip was swollen, the bruising a dark purple that spread just below the scabbed lip. He scowled and brushed it gingerly with two fingertips. “Bring me some ice.”

“Yes Sir; will there be anything else?” asked the manservant as he rose and bowed.

“No. Get out,” snapped Tybalt. He felt a brief flash of guilt – fleeting, gone almost as fast as it flared – as Peter flinched back at his tone then dismissed the servant from his mind as Peter retreated from the room.

There were no marks or bruises other than his lip to serve as momentos of the previous evening's events. He supposed he should be grateful for that, that he was spared that small humiliation at least. It was bad enough that he had allowed himself to be swayed by the Escalus brat's charms into lowering his guard without having marks to remind him every time he looked in the mirror.

Other than the reminder upon his lip, of course. But that would heal in time. People would assume, as Juliet had, that he had come by it during one of his episodes. He merely had but to avoid Mercutio until it healed, which was a small enough thing. 

He'd done fairly well at it without realising it, after all, it seemed; he supposed he should be gratified that the red-haired whelp had actually sought him out. If he were honest with himself (and Tybalt had always been honest, both with himself and with others, to a fault; his blunt brutal honesty had won him as many enemies as admirers) then he was forced to admit that a small part of him was flattered and perhaps even enjoyed a little the attention he received from Mercutio. The texts and photos with teasing captions were irritating, yes – but Tybalt had also found some of them a little amusing on occasion.

Maybe sometimes even irritating attention were better than none at all from those around him – or worse yet, contempt. 

He was stirred from his reverie by the sound of the door handle turning, and a moment later Juliet entered, followed by her Nurse who bore a tea tray set with pot, cups and several covered dishes. Tybalt felt his heart sink at sight of the Nurse but he let no trace of his disappointment show on his face as he rose from his seat, his customary mask firmly back in place as he moved to take the tray from the Nurse and set it upon the table. 

He endured Nurse's tutting as she reached up and took his chin in a firm hand, turning his head this way and that as she inspected his lip with a frown, then sat down as she bade him and quietly held still as she gently washed the cuts with a clean cloth and applied antiseptic cream. Inside he chafed at being treated like a child, but under Juliet's sympathetic and concerned gaze he could only meekly submit. Juliet poured him a cup of black tea, added a squeeze of lemon then placed the cup before him before pouring for herself and Nurse.

The Nurse was getting old, but she had nursed Juliet from infancy and Juliet was very fond of the old woman; and the Nurse had been kind and gentle to the troubled boy he had been when he arrived under the Capulet roof, his father barely in the ground a few hours and his mother so long dead he could no longer even recall her face save that her eyes were green like his, her raven-black hair so like his own. In truth her services were no longer required and she should have been let go long ago, but she had always been a loyal retainer and it would have broken Juliet's heart to send her away.

Juliet smiled and rolled her eyes at Nurse behind the old woman's back as Nurse fussed with the covered dishes and began serving breakfast onto plates for them both, grumbling that Tybalt was too thin and he was drinking too much, not eating enough. It was the same complaint he had heard from her near-daily since he had inherited his father's sword and taken on the mantle of manhood at 16, and he let it wash over him as he sipped his tea, his attention on Juliet, idly feeding Marlowe small tidbits under the table as the black cat curled up upon his lap and purred contentedly. He nodded attentively and smiled at all the right points as Juliet chatted gaily about some new silks she'd seen in the marketplace and how her mother had promised her a new dress for the festival in a week's time but her uncle didn't like her shopping on her own; and he found himself nodding and agreeing to accompany her to the market without quite realising what he was doing until she jumped up with a little pleased squeal to fling her arms around him and kiss him on the cheek in thanks.

“Now then, Pet, I _told_ you he would; Tybalt is a _good_ boy!” replied Nurse placidly as she sipped her own tea. “Your father needn't worry about those Montague rogues; they won't dare come near you with Tybalt at our side!”

Tybalt disengaged himself from Juliet's embrace and gave Nurse a mirthless smile, all teeth and devoid of warmth. “Indeed.”

“And as for that Escalus boy, well.” Nurse sniffed. “He's a brat, that one, and no mistake.”

“Yes, he is,” agreed Tybalt, and said no more as he turned his attention to his food. 

The next time he encountered Mercutio, he would have a blade in his hand. Mercutio Escalus would not make a fool of him again; of that, he was grimly certain.


	8. Chapter 8

“We’ll get in trouble if anyone sees us.”

“Now, Benvolio, since when did we ever let a little matter like that stop us, hmm?” asked Mercutio from somewhere overhead in the branches of the apple tree. “Now hold your hands out and catch.”

“You don’t think a month waiting table for your uncle last time he caught us was enough?” complained Benvolio, none the less tugging out the hem of his shirt from his trousers to hold it ready as Mercutio began to drop apples to him. “This was my good shirt too.”

“And now it is all the better for the sweetness of its contents, good Benvolio! Now be sweeter still and hush - unless you _want_ us to be caught!” retorted Mercutio.

He was bored. He’d been bored all day - and strangely angry with himself. He’d been angry when he finally crawled into bed as the dawn chorus of birdsong rang out across the city, and he’d woken up still simmering with anger only a couple of hours later. He could not have explained why if asked; what cared he for Tybalt’s reaction and rejection of him last night? He’d bitten him on whim - but then hadn’t everything he’d done been on whim? Tybalt should have known better than to trust him; some days he barely even trusted himself. They were not friends, after all, were they?

And yet, unaccountably, he felt guilt. Tybalt had looked almost... happy, lying there, looking up at him so trustingly - and Mercutio had to admit that part of him - no small part, at that - felt ... happy, proud almost that he had put that smile there on lips unfamiliar with such. He remembered the sound of his own name on those lips - and the look of betrayal on Tybalt’s face still lingered with him, and that he could not abide.

He angrily twisted another apple from its branch and dropped it into Benvolio’s waiting arms below.

Benvolio sighed. “We’re not children any more. We could afford all the apples in the market if you wanted apples, Mercutio.”

“Ah, but none would taste as good as those stolen from under the very noses of the Capulets!” replied Mercutio as he lowered himself upside down so his head hung on a level with Benvolio’s. He grinned as his companion rolled his eyes at him. “Come now, admit it - you’re secretly enjoying yourself.”

“Not as much as you, I suspect,” replied Benvolio. “What do you want with all these apples anyway? You can’t possibly mean to eat them all yourself.”

“What does it matter what you do with them?” asked Mercutio as he swung himself down out of the tree and snatched up an apple, sinking his teeth into it with a grin. He swallowed the mouthful of fruit before gesturing at their stolen contraband. “The acquisition, that’s the whole point, Benvolio.” He bent and picked up his jacket, slinging it over his shoulder before draping his other arm - complete with apple - over Benvolio’s shoulder and glanced down at the pile of fruit nestled in the folds of Benvolio’s shirt. He held the apple up to Benvolio’s mouth and his friend sighed then bit into it.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something to do with all those apples, Benvolio, you’re a resourceful fellow,” said Mercutio breezily as he stepped away, leaving his hapless friend stuck with the apple in his mouth and his shirt full of stolen Capulet fruit. After a moment of surprise, Benvolio spat out the remains of the apple then chased after Mercutio with a yell, taking up one of the apples to hurl after the redhead as he sprinted on ahead.

Romeo encountered them under a tree near the marketplace, Mercutio reclining on the ground, long legs stretched out in front of him as he rested his back against the trunk whilst Benvolio leaned against the tree. Both were finishing off an apple each, and Mercutio threw his apple core at the young Montague as he approached.

“Late as ever, Romeo; you’ll be late for your own funeral,” predicted Mercutio laconically.

“Late for what?” asked Romeo as he joined them. Benvolio threw him an apple and he caught it.

“Saved one for you,” said his friend. “Mercutio ate the rest.”

“Not all of them!” protested Mercutio. 

“Enough of them,” replied Benvolio.

“The ones you didn’t waste,” the redhead pointed out. “Anyway, I was the one who picked them.”

“You’re arguing over apples?” asked Romeo as he dropped down to sit next to Mercutio before taking a bite of his apple.

“ _Capulet_ apples, no less,” Benvolio informed him. “You missed out on the fun.”

“Seriously? Scrumping apples? How old are you, Mercutio?” laughed Romeo.

“Two years older than you and twice as handsome,” shot back Mercutio as he jumped up to his feet.

“Apples aren’t the only thing he’s been stealing from Capulets,” smirked Benvolio. Mercutio spun on his heel and stared at Benvolio.

“Oh-ho, spying on me were you?” he grinned, though the smile didn’t reach his blue eyes. “Benvolio, I would never have thought it of you.”

“You sly dog - putting it to Lady Capulet whilst her husband’s away again?” laughed Romeo admiringly as he got to his feet.

“Keep your voice down or it’s not tables we’ll be waiting on for the next month,” muttered Benvolio. “You take some chance, cuckolding old Capulet below his very roof like that, Mercutio.”

“Chance is there for the taking, and I take it - and more besides,” retorted Mercutio, though he kept his voice low. 

Romeo laughed. “Better hope Tybalt doesn’t catch you sneaking trespassing - for apples or anything else!”

Mercutio grinned, and then began to laugh. If he only knew...!

“Speak of the devil - isn’t that Tybalt there, with his cousin?” asked Benvolio, elbowing Romeo before pointing.

Across the market, the tall figure of Lady Capulet’s nephew was unmistakable, clad in his customary black and scowling as he accompanied his slender cousin who was inspecting bolts of silk on a stall whilst an older woman - a servant perhaps, or lady’s maid - dickered with the merchant. Three men in Capulet colours stood nearby. Tybalt looked supremely bored with the whole affair as he stood beside the two women, arms folded as his gaze swept the crowd around them. 

One of the Capulet men leaned over to say something to Tybalt and he nodded, his eyes still moving restlessly over the crowd; the three men spread out slightly to look at nearby stalls.

“Paranoid, that one,” remarked Benvolio.

A fey light gleamed in Mercutio’s eye. “Let’s give him reason to be,” he grinned. He snatched the apple core out of Benvolio’s hand and lobbed it at the nearest Capulet then ducked behind the tree. When the Capulet man looked round in fury, he saw only Benvolio. Snatching a fat tomato off the nearby stall he lobbed it back; Benvolio ducked but the fruit hit him on the arm, exploding in a wet splat over his shoulder.

“Hey!” yelled Romeo and sprinted towards the nearest stall and snatched up a tray of eggs, beginning to hurl them back at the Capulet man as the merchant protested. Then a passing Montague got hit by the return fire by the Capulets, and in minutes a full-scale food-fight was being fought in the middle of the market square as Mercutio curled up giggling behind the tree.

The day was beginning to look up already. Tybalt had looked so outraged when his men began throwing fruit and vegetables at the Montagues, and the sheer ludicrousness of the situation outweighed Mercutio’s earlier anger at himself. This was far better than stealing a few apples; that was just petty vindictiveness after being thrown out but this - this was mischief on a much better scale. 

He peered around the tree and as he’d expected, Tybalt stood in stiff outrage in front of his cousin, defending her as he barked orders at his men to desist. Doubtless if blades had been drawn or fists raised then Tybalt would have been right in the thick of it - but a food fight was beneath his dignity.

As he emerged from behind the shelter of the tree, Tybalt spied him. “Mercutio, you dog!” he howled. “I should have known you’d be behind such foolery!”

Mercutio spread his arms wide and grinned in mute acknowledgment then grunted as something hit him in the ribs. He stumbled slightly and put his hand to the spot, feeling soft, sticky wetness there. “Oh, a hit, a palpable hit!” He staggered melodramatically. “Romeo, alack, I am slain!”

Romeo and Benvolio were at his side in a moment, Romeo slapping his hand away to stare aghast at the spreading red stain against the soft white linen of his shirt. 

“Mercutio, that’s not real - stop playing the fool!” said Benvolio. Mercutio merely groaned and staggered, nearly falling as Benvolio and Romeo clutched at him to hold him up.

“They have made worm’s meat of me, Romeo,” said Mercutio in a faint voice, slumping against Benvolio. Across the square he could see Tybalt standing still, watching them. Was that a look of concern in the Capulet’s eyes? 

“Mercutio! How did it happen - I didn’t see -” Romeo was pawing at his shirt in a panic, but Mercutio couldn’t restrain the laughter that burst out of him as he pushed Romeo’s hands away.

“It was a plum, you dunce!” he laughed. “A mummery, no more - but you fell for it so easily!”

Benvolio groaned and slapped Mercutio’s arm as the redhead clutched at him giggling. “You rapscallion! You had us both fooled.”

_And not just you,_ thought Mercutio as he watched Tybalt turn away, a fleeting look of relief replaced by an expression of disgust.

The guard had laggardly taken note of the disturbance in the marketplace and were moving through the crowd to break it up; Tybalt was ushering his cousin and her maidservant away, and it seemed the prudent course for the three to do likewise.

“Come, let’s get out of here before we find ourselves scrubbing toilets in my uncle’s palace for the next month and more,” said Mercutio, still chuckling.

They fled.


	9. Chapter 9

He stirred, drifting in a doze. It was hot, the room airless and humid; the air was stale and heavy, and breathing felt almost like suffocation. The long velvet drapes trapped the heat in the darkened room and no breeze stirred past their heavy folds. The thin sheets were damp with sweat and had wound constrictingly about his legs like thick linen rope, trammelling him still further.

He kicked out restlessly and his foot touched skin; his eyes flew open. Ah, yes. Remembrance returning, dreamlike, hazy and unreal; a frantic coupling, near-silent panting, mouths desperately seeking each other, hands linking, joining as they raced towards completion, a moment of blissful union for a few precious seconds that seemed all too dream-like now. And then... what? He did not remember. He must have slept. He had expected to awaken alone.

He rolled over with a teasing smile on his face...

… and froze as he stared at Mercutio sprawled upon the other side of the bed, the white sheets dark with blood, one pale hand draped limply upon his abdomen, the fingers curled loosely about the hilt of the knife that protruded from his body, the blade buried deep inside. Mercutio's blue eyes stared vacantly back at him, a faint look of surprise upon his still features.

Tybalt sat up and reached a trembling hand towards Mercutio but halted as he stared at his own hand. It was covered in blood. 

The whole bed was awash with blood. Mercutio's blood – on his hands, splashed up his arms, on his body, soaked into the sheets wound around him; dear god he could even _taste_ it in his mouth, upon his lips as Mercutio stared with eyes glazed in death towards him.

“No. No, no, this can't be happening!” cried Tybalt as he clutched at his hair and fell back in horror.

The door flew open behind him and a voice was calling his name as he shrank away from the horrible vision, still fighting to free himself from the sheets. 

“Tybalt! Tybalt, calm yourself!” Hands were upon his shoulders, shaking him; eyes staring into his, golden curls tumbling about a face, a familiar face -

His aunt. What would she think? What would she say? Tybalt glanced back toward the bloodied corpse -

“Tybalt, what is wrong? Why are you staring at the bed like that?” asked Lady Capulet as she brushed sweat-dampened hair back out of his eyes.

“Dead, he was dead....” murmured Tybalt, blinking slowly as he stared at the empty dishevelled sheets pulled askew by his nocturnal thrashings. The linen sheets were white, the only stain his own sweat. The only occupant was himself.

Tybalt drew a deep breath as he composed himself. “My apologies, ma'am, I must have been dreaming,” he said stiffly as he mentally willed his heart and breathing back under his control.

His aunt sat back, not relinquishing her grip upon his shoulders. “I am worried for you, Tybalt,” she said quietly. “This is the third night in succession you have woken screaming from nightmares. What is wrong?”

Tybalt shook his head. “It is nothing. The heat, I never sleep well in summer. You well know this,” he replied curtly.

“Tybalt,” his aunt said reprovingly as she lifted a hand to cup his cheek, turning his face towards her as she leaned closer.

“Forgive me,” he said quietly as he lifted his eyes towards hers.

“Always,” she said with a fond smile. She drew closer still, her breath ghosting across his lips; and Tybalt caught his breath for a moment as she slid her hand into his hair to cup the back of his head.

And then she tugged his head forward and down as she bestowed a chaste kiss upon his forehead before rising, gathering the skirts of her nightgown about her in a quiet rustle of silk as she moved swiftly towards the door. “May the rest of your sleep be peaceful, Tybalt,” she said softly over her shoulder, and then she was gone; only the scent of her perfume, heavy and intoxicating, lingered upon the air to suggest she had ever been there.

Tybalt stared into space for a moment, folding an outstretched hand slowly into a fist before dropping his gaze back to the empty sheets as his lip curled in a bitter smile. 

He had been plagued by this dream nightly; for a week in fact, though it had only been upon the last three nights that he had awoken screaming. It was embarrassing and irksome, and it disturbed him that Mercutio should have wormed his way into his dreams in such disquieting fashion.

It was also exhausting. He could not remember when last he had a good night's rest. He sighed, and disentangling himself from the sheets he rose and made his way to the en suite bathroom. He switched on the shower, setting it to lukewarm then stepped in and let the cool water wash over him, soaking his hair as he tilted his head back and closed his eyes against the spray that beat against his face until he was breathless. Then he briskly washed, allowing himself only those few moments of idleness.

The stale sweat sluiced from his body and hair clean, he shut off the water and stepped from the shower. He towelled himself off quickly, squeezing water from his hair before shaking the damp locks away from his face. He shaved with quick, efficient strokes of the razor, rinsing off the foam before fingering the healing cut upon his lip. There was barely a mark to show where Mercutio had bitten him, for which he was thankful. Bad enough the damnable brat was invading his dreams now, without having a visible reminder of that night every time he looked in the mirror. He would have to find a way to repay Mercutio for his temporary memento. He smiled grimly at his own reflection, drying himself off with a final wipe of the towel before dropping it into the laundry hamper and striding back into his bedroom.

He was awake, there was perhaps an hour to go before dawn. There seemed little point in attempting to sleep again.

He dressed simply, plain black jeans and a dark grey shirt, then padded downstairs barefoot to the kitchen to fetch himself coffee. He could have woken Peter, but some things he just preferred to do himself.

The kitchen was empty and deserted; the staff would not be awake for another half hour yet. For this precious brief time he had the place to himself. He set a pot of good strong coffee brewing then set it upon a tray with a few oddments of cold meats and fruit for a light breakfast. He returned to his room, his footsteps unhurried, deep in thought.

He set the tray on the table then threw back the thick heavy drapes that shrouded his room in twilight. The sun was just beginning to rise, gilding the clouds in rosy hues. Tybalt unlocked the balcony doors and threw them open, drawing in a deep breath of the fresh early morning air before returning inside to pour himself a cup of coffee. Then he walked out onto the balcony, the stone cold beneath his bare feet.

He rested his elbows upon the stone balustrade and breathed in the cool air, taking simple pleasure in the light breeze that blew upon his face and stirred his damp locks. 

It would undoubtedly be another ferociously hot and humid day; tempers would be running high again. The threat of violence hung like a perpetually present miasma over the city these days, and in such close, sultry weather it took little to spark irritation into anger and raised fists. There had been several incidents between followers of the Capulets and the rabble that hung around the Montagues in the past few days; a couple of stabbings, neither fatal thankfully, but the guard were hard pressed to keep atop of it all and it seemed only a matter of time before more blood was shed.

But for now, it was cool and pleasant in this sheltered spot, bounded by the high walls of the Capulet estate, and Tybalt could be at peace as he watched the greys and blues of the shadowed gardens give way to greens, golds and the riot of colours of the roses in full bloom that were so beloved of his aunt, their rich heady scents so redolent of the perfume she wore. The scents rising from the blood-red roses beneath his balcony were almost a ghostly echo of Lady Capulet's presence. 

Tybalt preferred violets himself.

He sipped the coffee slowly as his gaze roved restlessly over the garden, on watch out of habit for anything out of place, any sign of intruders or threat to the peace and tranquillity of the house and its inhabitants. Nothing stirred however; there was no-one there.

Not even a certain impudent redhead.

Tybalt scowled as he recognised the paths his thoughts were taking. Damn the Escalus brat; bad enough he should invade Tybalt's dreams but must he preoccupy his waking thoughts as well? Why this fascination with him? It had been a brief dalliance – it should have meant nothing. It had been made clear to him that it certainly held no significance to Mercutio. Why then should he find himself dwelling upon it, like a dog drawn back unceasingly to gnaw upon a bone or an idle hand to scratch at an itching wound that would not heal -

No. He would think upon this no longer. He had other, more pressing matters to think on. Lord Capulet would be leaving Verona this afternoon upon a brief business trip to Mantua. He would only be gone a couple of days but until then Tybalt was responsible for the safety and security of the house. A ball was planned for the evening of his uncle's return, and Tybalt had duties to perform, plans to oversee and approve in his uncle's absence. He was determined that his uncle would have no cause to complain of his conduct or efficiency.

Turning away, Tybalt headed back inside. 

A lone figure rose from the bushes below the balcony, brushing dirt off his jeans as he stepped out onto the path. The early morning sun glinted red off his hair as he glanced up at the empty balcony and grinned.

There would be a party, and he wasn't invited. But Mercutio intended to be there nonetheless.


	10. Chapter 10

Mercutio had to admit the Capulets knew how to throw one hell of a party.

He felt a brief pang of guilt that he’d misled Benvolio and Romeo as to his evening’s plans, but he knew if he’d told them where he was really going then Benvolio would have insisted on joining in whilst Romeo would have tried to talk them both out of it. He hadn’t yet stopped mooning over that merchant’s daughter from Padua, even though she had made it plain she would be returning home with her father two days hence; their fling had been very brief but Romeo had been amusingly intense as ever.

Well, Benvolio found it amusing; Mercutio had found the whole thing very tiresome - _Violetta this, Violetta that_ , and never a moment to spare with his long-suffering companions that was not spent either sighing over the absent Violetta’s purported charms or else expounding upon them at length to them for the fourteenth time. Romeo in love was a dull and tiresome companion in Mercutio’s opinion, and the sooner the merchant’s daughter was returned to Padua and Romeo returned to his normal self the happier Mercutio would be.At present however Benvolio was assisting Romeo to drown his sorrows in some tavern not far from the Montague estate as Violetta was apparently heedless of Romeo’s entreaties to persuade her father to let her stay a little longer, and Mercutio had made some excuse of some dull function at the palace to take his leave of them both. If he had to spend one more evening hearing of the redoubtable charms of the fabled Violetta he would go mad.

If they had known his reasons for gatecrashing the Capulet party they doubtless would both have declared him bereft of his senses and sat on him until he had regained them - and as Mercutio made his way around the edge of the throng in the Capulet ballroom he reflected that perhaps they might have been right. He could find no other way to account for his fascination with the slender figure who stood upon the dais overlooking the merrymaking, aloof as ever.

Lord Capulet had not yet put in his appearance, though Lady Capulet was as ever the gracious and attentive hostess, acknowledging each arriving guest with a nod and a dazzling smile. Her daughter Juliet was not in evidence - perhaps attending in filial duty upon her recently-returned father - but Tybalt stood stiffly at attention next to his aunt, dark eyes glittering as they scanned restlessly over the crowd for any possible threat. Mercutio had kept himself out of the path of that hawk-like gaze, though he was certain that Lady Capulet knew he was there. As he snagged a glass of wine from a passing servant he caught her eye from across the room. She threw him a dazzling smile and a conspiratorial wink, and Mercutio could not restrain an answering roguish grin before ducking out of sight as Tybalt turned to see just who had caught his aunt’s wayward eye.

 Despite the twinkle of promise in the blonde noblewoman’s eye however, it was not the delights of Lady Capulet’s company he had come for this evening. His prey was taller and darker of mien.

 Mercutio sipped his wine as he slipped deftly around a dancing couple, one eye on Tybalt on his dais. The young blade of the Capulets seemed to be staring intently at something out of Mercutio’s view, one hand stealing to the hilt of his ever-present rapier in a movement that seemed unconscious and automatic as his eyes narrowed. Abruptly he leapt down from the dais and began making his way through the crowd.

Mercutio didn’t plan on being discovered by Tybalt just yet; he wanted to surprise him at a more opportune moment, which evidently was not right now. He had no idea who had drawn Tybalt’s attention, but he didn’t plan on being around in the vicinity of Tybalt’s ire. He made his way towards a tall fluted column, intending to put it between himself and Tybalt.

A hand closed upon his shoulder and he was suddenly spun around, his wine spilling. He caught a brief glimpse of hard grey eyes, close-cropped blond hair and a black velvet doublet slashed in yellow silk. He had the fleeting thought that the man resembled nothing so much as an angry hornet and opened his mouth to say as much, but the fist that abruptly connected with his solar plexus drove all breath from his body as he doubled over. His back slammed into the stone column as he fought for breath that seemingly would not come.

A hand fisted in his hair, hauling him upright and forcing his head back painfully. There was a flash of silver as the point of a dagger flew towards Mercutio’s bared throat, and his eyes widened as he saw his death. He was distantly aware of screams around him.

The blade flew wide and the hand in Mercutio’s hair fell slack. He stared up at his would-be assassin in incomprehension as the man’s eyes widened in shock, and then he understood. The point of a blade had emerged through the man’s throat. The man lifted a desperate hand towards his neck then shuddered as the blade twisted within his throat, rotating, spilling hot wet blood down the man’s chest as bloody froth foamed upon his lips. His eyes glazed over and he dropped to the floor at Mercutio’s feet, dead.

Mercutio lifted his eyes from the corpse on the ground to meet Tybalt’s gaze. Tybalt’s green gaze bore into Mercutio as he lowered his bloodied rapier, his face blank and impassive though there was a flicker of fading alarm in his eyes.

Temporarily bereft of his customary wit, Mercutio could only gasp a hasty thanks. Tybalt gave a stiff nod and opened his mouth as though to speak but was interrupted as Lord Capulet thrust his way through the crowd to stare at the tableau before him.

“What is this?” he roared.

“An assassin’s attempt upon the nephew of the Prince, Uncle,” said Tybalt as he turned towards him. The next moment his head snapped back under the force of the resounding slap from Lord Capulet’s hand.

“Idiot! Dolt!” his uncle fumed. “The safety of our guests was your responsibility, Tybalt, yet once again you have failed me and bring shame upon our house! How was this assassin allowed beneath my roof?”

Tybalt slowly turned back towards his uncle, lifting a hand to wipe away a small smear of blood from his lip. His face held a look of blank shock for a moment, his eyes bewildered, before his customary impassive mask smoothed over his features into cool indifference once more.

“You’re as bad as your father ever was,” sneered Lord Capulet. “Get out of my sight!”

“Father, wait - please!” pleaded Juliet as she hurried to her father’s side and clutched at his sleeve, her mother hurrying after, her face anxious as she stared at Tybalt.

Tybalt bowed stiffly then turned upon his heel and strode silently from the hall, the now-silent crowd parting before him. As Lord Capulet turned to Mercutio, a quiet murmur went through the throng, a susurrus of whispers that rippled out in Tybalt’s wake as the doors closed behind him.

“Sir, I must humbly apologise; a thousand pardons for this insult against your person -” began Lord Capulet effusively as two servants swiftly removed the assassin’s body. “Please, allow me to -”

“Save it,” replied Mercutio tersely. “My Uncle will hear of this - including how you treated the man who just saved my life.”

“But - sir, I must ask -” blustered Lord Capulet; Mercutio would hear none of it as he turned away and hastened after Tybalt. He heard Tybalt’s uncle call his name but didn’t spare a backwards glance as he pushed his way through the door, nearly colliding with a serving man who was hastily mopping up spilled wine.

“Which way did he go?” asked Mercutio. The servant gestured in the direction of a pair of glass doors at the far end of the hall.

“The garden, sir,” the servant called as Mercutio headed towards the doors.

“Wait!”

Mercutio paused by the doors and glanced back as a portly woman huffed towards him. She seemed familiar; it suddenly came to him where he’d seen her before - the serving woman with Tybalt and his cousin in the marketplace. She caught up to him, out of breath.

“The garden, sir. The pond beneath the willow tree. You’ll find him there,” she said urgently. “I must go back; my Juliet will need me - but please, go to him. He should not be left alone - not after -” She put a hand to her mouth. “Oh dear, oh dear, this is all terrible. Tybalt's a good boy, sir - he doesn't deserve this! Oh dear, I speak as shouldn't, but it's all so unjust. He's a good boy, sir, a _good_ boy!”

“Go find your charge, Nurse,” said Mercutio gently. “Leave Tybalt to me.”

“He’s a _good_ boy!” insisted the nurse again, calling after him as Mercutio let himself out into the garden.

It took Mercutio some time to find the pond with the willow tree the nurse had told him of; the gardens were large and expansive, high hedges lining paths that glimmered white in the moonlight as his booted feet crunched upon the fine gravel. He had begun to think he had taken some wrong turning somewhere when he came upon a set of stone stairs leading down into a sunken garden filled with roses and lavender. In the centre a large willow stood, its long trailing branches shading the dark still waters of a large pool.

Mercutio stared around the garden; at first he saw no sign of Tybalt. He was about to call his name when something caught his eye; a dark figure, sprawled upon the ground near the foot of the tree, one limp hand trailing in the water. He hurried around the pool and dropped to his knees beside Tybalt’s still form.

He guessed the unconscious man must have suffered another of his fits; it was unsurprising, given the way his uncle had treated him - and in front of a hall filled with guests, no less, he reflected as he lifted Tybalt’s hand out of the water and laid it upon his breast then tilted the pale face towards him.

There was still a smear of blood upon Tybalt’s chin. A bruise purpled the pale skin where his uncle’s hand had struck, a cut upon his lip where one of Lord Capulet’s rings had struck and drawn blood. A second ugly contusion was slowly blossoming beneath the skin upon Tybalt’s left temple, just above the eye; he must have struck his head as he fell.

Mercutio stripped off his jacket and folded it before carefully lifting Tybalt’s head to slip the jacket beneath him. Tybalt’s head rolled limply to one side, eyes closed. Mercutio shook his head grimly, his lips set in a thin line as he took his handkerchief and wet it in the cool water, then gently dabbed away the blood upon Tybalt’s chin before bathing the bruises. He brushed long strands of dark hair away from the unconscious man’s face then paused, Tybalt’s cheek warm against his cold palm, as he tilted his head face towards him and stared down at him.

Tybalt was a creature of sharp angles and hidden razor edges; and yet Mercutio had seen this hard-edged man soften, his eyes gentle. Around the cat Tybalt had shown affection; and he had responded ardently to Mercutio’s own ministrations that night - before Mercutio had ruined it all by giving in to that stupid impulse to bite him. Tybalt was a creature of paradoxes and contradictions - and Mercutio felt perhaps now he had a better idea of why, having been witness to Lord Capulet’s wrath. He wondered just how many times Tybalt had had to accept the mantle of scapegoat at the hands of his uncle since losing his own parents at such a tender age, the spectre of his long-dead father held over him and invoked at every perceived wrong-doing. No wonder Tybalt was so prickly, so keen to take offence. Mercutio felt the smouldering anger he had felt, from the moment Tybalt’s head had snapped back from the force of his uncle’s blow, bloom inside him into a burning fury. How many years of injustice had Tybalt born silently?

Tybalt stirred slightly, eyelids fluttering as his fingers twitched spasmodically. His dark brows drew down into a slight frown as his eyes opened, his gaze unfocused.

“Where...?”

“Easy now, you’re safe,” said Mercutio gently. “You’re in the garden. By the willow tree. Don't try to move yet - you've probably got concussion.”

“Mercutio?” Tybalt’s eyes focused with difficulty upon the red-haired man who leaned over him. Mercutio gave him a reassuring smile.

“Just me,” Mercutio agreed. “You hit your head when you fell. I’m afraid you’re probably going to have one hell of a headache.”

Tybalt sighed and closed his eyes. “Probably,” he agreed. “Won’t be any worse than I usually get.” He opened his eyes and glanced up at Mercutio again. “I apologise for my uncle’s behaviour.”

“You’re apologising? To me? For that oaf?” exclaimed Mercutio. “Tybalt, if anyone should apologise it’s him. You did nothing wrong - you saved my life. If not for you I’d be dead.”

“No,” sighed Tybalt tiredly. He shook his head and then winced as a lance of pain shot through his skull. “No, he was right. It was my fault the assassin got in. The safety of the guests was my responsibility.” He narrowed his eyes at Mercutio. “I didn’t even spot you sneaking in. I failed.” He turned his head away and closed his eyes. “My uncle is right. I’ve disgraced the family yet again.”

Mercutio grasped Tybalt’s shoulders and gave them a small shake. “No, he’s wrong - and so are you.” He frowned. “Tybalt, look at me.”

Tybalt made no reply, his eyes still closed, face pained.

“Damn you, _look_ at me, you stubborn son of a - Tybalt. Look. At. Me.”

Tybalt opened his eyes and turned his head to look warily up at Mercutio, and the Prince’s nephew felt something twist painfully inside him. There was a look of hopeless despair in Tybalt’s eyes, as though he expected Mercutio to hit him. It struck Mercutio painfully hard that if he did, Tybalt at that moment would have fully believed he deserved it. This was another side of Tybalt he had never seen before, and he guessed few ever had. Were Tybalt not unwell and injured, Mercutio had no doubt he would never have been permitted to see him in this fragile, vulnerable state; and Mercutio felt his rage at Lord Capulet build again. He lifted a hand to cup Tybalt’s cheek, and Tybalt flinched.

Mercutio swallowed hard. “Tybalt, I’m not going to hit you. You didn’t deserve that. The only one who disgraced the Capulet name this evening was your uncle - and I’m going to make sure my uncle knows that.”

“Your...?” Tybalt frowned in confusion, then his eyes widened as he realised the meaning behind Mercutio’s words. “No, you can’t tell the Prince!” he said urgently as he sat up and reached to grasp Mercutio’s shoulder. “The Prince must never know, this would -” He broke off as his face went white, the incautious movement awakening a flame of agonising pain in his head. He fell back with a low gasp, clutching his head.

“I’m getting you out of here,” decided Mercutio as he slipped an arm around Tybalt’s shoulders. “I’m not leaving you in this nest of vipers - not like this.”

“I can’t leave,” groaned Tybalt, not resisting as Mercutio hauled him to his feet. He sagged against the red-head, one hand pressed to his forehead. “Juliet -”

“I’ll send send word to her and let her know you’ll be safe. I’ll text her once I’ve got you settled.”

“Where?” asked Tybalt dully as Mercutio slung his red leather jacket around the taller man’s shoulders then started to guide his halting footsteps towards the nearest gate out of the garden.

“There’s an inn a little distance from here; I often take a room there when I’ve drunk too much to make it back to the palace or the Montagues’,” answered Mercutio. Tybalt halted, swaying, at mention of the hated enemy; Mercutio rolled his eyes and tugged him onwards. “Come on, don’t be a goose - the Montagues never drink there. I don’t think they even know about the place; I’ve never taken Benvolio or Romeo there. It would be asking for trouble. We’ll be safe there, and you can rest and sleep this off.”

Tybalt allowed Mercutio to tug him onwards, and they headed slowly out of the garden.

It was so like that first evening when Tybalt had sent him that text; and it seemed yet again Mercutio could not leave the young Capulet be. He wondered whether Tybalt’s temper would be any better on the morrow than it had been that first time.

This time it was different though. This time, Mercutio owed Tybalt his life.


	11. Chapter 11

He allowed Mercutio to tug him onwards; his world had narrowed down to the act of putting one foot in front of the other and trying to remain upright through the waves of pain. His face was stiff and sore, aching; his lip throbbed in counterpoint. His vision had started to blur in his left eye, a whirling disk of scintillating colours and shifting patterns that was slowly growing to occlude his field of vision. He said nothing to Mercutio but instead walked mutely, leaning a little into the flame-haired man’s side. He was distantly aware that Mercutio was talking to him quietly, but he couldn’t concentrate enough to follow the words, much less respond.

Mercutio seemed to pick up on his inability to speak; at least, he fell silent, which Tybalt supposed was as good as the same thing. He had no idea where Mercutio was taking him; he vaguely recalled something about an inn but the constant thrumming of pain through his head was scrambling his thoughts. Wherever it was, it seemed to be taking an age to get there - but then again, he had no way to gauge the passing of time. Each minute seemed to crawl past in an eternity of pain. He gritted his teeth and stumbled on, mutely grateful for Mercutio’s guiding hand about his waist and firm, supportive shoulder.

Flashes of memory from the evening kept replaying past his mind’s eye with a sense of unreality, as though he were watching a film of someone else’s memories; a fleeting glimpse of a shock of fire-coloured hair darting between the revellers. A glimpse of a knife concealed in a palm held close to a black velvet doublet, grey eyes intent only on their prey.

Pushing through the throng; a remembered sense of urgency, a fear he would be too late. The upraised hand with knife, and his rapier in his own hand. A thrust; the familiar, sickening feeling and sound as the blade grated past bone, the hilt vibrating in his hand. Hot, wet blood flooding down the fuller of the blade towards his hand; the smell of blood as it ran across his fingers ( _but was that truly how it happened?_ his mind whispered; _was it truly?_ )

He flexed his hand unconsciously then glanced down, focusing with difficulty on his hand. There were no marks or stains on his fingers.

“Tybalt?” He was only half aware that they had stopped, Mercutio frowning at him; over half his field of vision was obscured now, his fingers half-glimpsed around the edges of the scintillating colours that shimmered maddeningly as his stomach lurched.

“I need to lie down,” Tybalt managed to get out. “Going to -”

Abruptly he found himself retching, Mercutio holding him up as each spasm awakened fresh agony that lanced through his skull, smoothing back his hair out of his face..

Mercutio’s fingers on his face, cool against his brow; he opened his eyes and winced. The light was too bright, the siren too loud.

_Siren?_

Mercutio leaning over him - but when had he lain down?

“Take it easy, we’ll be there soon.”

“Where?” Was that his voice - that pained croak? At least he could see again, though the light in his eyes hurt unbearably. A sensation of movement; were they in an ambulance? Mercutio said something but it was lost in the roaring that filled his ears, his vision whiting out.

Blink.

A room, white, sterile. Fingers curled around his.

“I’m still here.” Mercutio.

“Juliet.” He didn’t recognise his own voice; that thin, weak sound. Was that truly him?

“Ssh, she’s coming. Soon.”

Someone else speaking in the room but he was tired, so tired.

“You have to stay awake, Tybalt. Come on, open your eyes. Damn it, where’s that doctor?”

_Doctor? A hospital then._

“Tybalt?”

He was dreaming; had to be. His body ached, though not as much as his head. He must have had another fit and fallen. Or - but no, wait, hadn’t that already happened? He was under the willow, his hand in the water, and he couldn’t keep his eyes open. But even with them closed he could still see the sneer of disdain upon his uncle’s face.

He’d failed. An assassin in the house, and he’d failed. Juliet, where was Juliet? An assassin in the house and he needed to protect her. He mustn’t fail again.

_Blood on his hands and he rolled over to stare at Mercutio; the blood so dark and red against the white sheets, his white face, the blue eyes so empty and vacant, the knife embedded in his abdomen, blood pooled around it; blood flecked upon the pale lips and he’d failed, failed again and who could trust him except Julia, he had to find Julia and warn her...._

“I’m here, cousin. I’m here now. It’s going to be alright.” Her slender fingers curling about his own - but then, who was it holding his other hand? No, Juliet shouldn’t be here, mustn’t see him like this.

“Calm yourself, Tybalt, it’s safe.” That voice - Mercutio again. He could barely hear him for the roaring in his ears. A rippling sensation in his head, moving from the back of his skull towards his brow. He knew only too well what was coming. Juliet mustn’t see. “Get her out - please -”

Back arching convulsively, beyond his control. Blackness.

_Tired. So tired._

“Sleep now. I’ll watch over you.”

_Mercutio?_

He slept.


	12. Chapter 12

It was the vibrations of his phone that finally stirred him from slumber. He blinked drowsily, feeling the phone vibrate insistently with each silent ring against his chest. The hospital blanket was rough against his cheek and a little damp where he must have drooled slightly in his sleep. _Lovely_. Mercutio sat up and winced as his neck and back protested too long spent sleeping in an uncomfortable position; he stretched, spine popping audibly, then glanced to the bed’s occupant.

Tybalt’s face looked sallow against the sterile white pillows; the strip fluorescent lighting was harsh upon his face. He was still deeply unconscious; Mercutio’s eyes flicked almost automatically to the heart and respiration monitor, reassured by the even pulse. Tybalt’s breathing was deep, even and almost silent save for the soft hiss of the oxygen cylinder. He glanced to the drip that snaked into a vein in the back of Tybalt’s hand; it had been feeding a steady drip of barbiturate and an anticonvulsant into the unconscious man’s veins for several hours now. Mercutio glanced to the clock; it had been fourteen hours since the last seizure.

He ran a hand tiredly over his face. He felt he’d somehow aged in those past hours as he watched seizure after seizure wrack Tybalt’s body, unable to do anything but call an ambulance when it became obvious the fits were not abating. Each seizure seemed to last longer, the intervals between when Tybalt briefly regained a semblance of consciousness growing shorter. Each time, he would call for Juliet, more delirious and incoherant; shortly after she’d arrived in a breathless hurry with her nurse in tow, Tybalt had gone into what seemed to be one long unending seizure. _Status epilepticus_ , the doctors had called it; likely brought on by the head injury sustained by the first seizure, each seizure triggering others in a cascade until it seemed some unseen electrical storm raged unchecked within his unconscious brain.

The medical staff had been forced to intubate Tybalt and administer an intravenous solution of barbiturate and anticonvulsant, forcing him into a coma whilst quelling the storm of misfiring synapses in his head. They had told him the names of the drugs but he couldn’t remember them. Juliet had made them write them down; the nurse had the list, he vaguely remembered.

“The doctor said they’ll take out the drip soon and let him wake up,” said Juliet quietly; Mercutio started. She had been so quiet, he’d forgotten she was even there. She smiled at him.

“Sorry, you looked so exhausted I thought it better to let you sleep,” she said apologetically. He waved off the apology tiredly and sat back in the hard plastic chair.

Tybalt’s cousin was a pretty little thing, he reflected. She couldn’t have been much more than fifteen, sixteen at most; she had an air of fresh-faced innocence about her that was quite enchanting. He could understand why Tybalt was so protective of her; she was growing into a beautiful young woman who would outshine her own mother before much longer. It wouldn’t be long before Tybalt would be having to beat back a long line of suitors for his young cousin’s hand. No wonder the swordsman looked perpetually as though the weight of the world were upon his shoulders - he must play the role of elder brother and protector to the only child of the Capulets, and all under the disapproving and vindictive eye of his uncle who doubtless only suffered Tybalt to remain under his roof as long as Tybalt proved himself of some use. The moment Juliet was safely married off in some advantageous match with some nobleman, Mercutio doubted it would be just the portly nurse who would find herself surplus to requirement.

He shifted his gaze to the man in question, who slept on, oblivious to his scrutiny or his train of thought.

Why should he care? Why should it bother him that a Capulet, of all people, should be cast aside unwanted by his own kith and kin? He’d thrown his own lot in in with the Montagues long ago; all knew where the Prince’s nephew cast his allegiance. He’d crossed blades with Tybalt himself often enough to prove the point had anyone doubted his loyalty, though he’d long suspected Tybalt actually enjoyed the tests of skill between them. Certainly he knew he had. But to make a friend of an enemy?

He felt Juliet’s eyes upon him and glanced up, one eyebrow quirking upwards in silent query. Juliet blushed a little but held her eyes upon him. Green eyes, he could not help but notice, though there the resemblance between them ended. Where Tybalt was dark, she was fair; his hair straight, hers wound in ringlets. His skin sallow, dark shadows under the eyes; her face open and fresh-cheeked, milky soft and still holding the slight plumpness of a child where Tybalt was all harsh angles and hard lines.

“I am glad he had a friend with him when the seizures came upon him,” she said quietly. 

“A friend?” replied Mercutio. “Is that who he told you I was?”

“No, but I have eyes to see, sir. Who but a friend would have cared for him so, staying by his side?”

Who indeed? Benvolio and Romeo would -

Benvolio and Romeo. He suddenly recalled his phone and snatched it from his pocket, swiping his thumb across the screen to waken it. He’d missed four phonecalls, all from Benvolio, and a slew of texts from both his friends demanding to know where he was. As he stared at the screen, the phone began to vibrate with another incoming call. 

He pushed back his chair. “I should take this,” he said apologetically, then glanced to Tybalt.

“Go, go,” smiled Juliet. “Go take your call; I’ll watch and call you if there’s any change.”

He nodded his thanks and slipped from the room.

It took him longer than expected to quell Benvolio’s alarm. Romeo, he was unsurprised to hear, had been mostly oblivious to Mercutio’s absence until Benvolio had pointed it out. Mercutio was on the verge of spinning his friend a long convoluted tale of drunken debauchery in some whorehouse or other (he’d done it often enough it wouldn’t exactly be a _lie_ , he just hadn’t done it _last night_ ) when Benvolio dropped the bombshell on him.

“They’re _what??_ ”

“Where have you been? It’s on all the news threads! You were attacked at the Capulets’ by an assassin; everyone’s speculating over which hospital you must have been taken to! Mercutio, what the hell is going on?”

Mercutio took the phone away from his mouth and hit mute before swearing loudly and thoroughly in every language he could think of; a passing nurse gave him a startled look then hurried passed. Mercutio closed his eyes and counted to ten. This was a bigger mess than he’d thought. He would definitely need to speak to his uncle.

“I’m fine. Not even a scratch. No, I have no idea who he was. - what? Oh. Capulet security took care of it.” He glanced briefly back at the door of Tybalt’s room. “Is Romeo there? Good. Sit on him, I don’t want him running around the city getting into trouble without me.”

“You’re doing fine at getting into trouble by yourself without his encouragement,” groused Benvolio.

“Bennie, do me a favour?”

There was a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, I’ll speak to his mother - and your uncle. I’ll come up with something to keep them off your back for at least twenty-four hours. And don’t you dare tell me you owe me one!”

Mercutio grinned. “I knew I could count on you Benvolio!” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll make this up to you, I swear.”

“You’d better,” groused his friend. “Twenty-four hours, OK?”

“Fantastic, thanks - I owe you one!” He cut Benvolio off in mid-protest.

He’d have to come up with some plausible explanation to Benvolio at some point. Not lie, precisely, but he wasn’t going to tell him the whole story. Not when he wasn’t even sure what the whole story was himself yet.

He flicked the screen lock back on and dropped the smartphone into his pocket as he pushed the door to Tybalt’s private room open.

A nurse was taking note of Tybalt’s pulse, respiration and temperature whilst a second nurse checked his blood pressure. The doctor was talking quietly with Juliet but broke off as Mercutio paused in the doorway. The IV had been removed from his hand and as he looked on, the two nurses started to fuss with the tubes.

“Ah, sir, I was just explaining to the young lady that we are withdrawing the barbiturate drip; we will allow him to come out of the coma in his own time, but we are hopeful that there will be no further seizures. We will be monitoring him carefully however.”

“And all that?” He gestured to where the nurses were carefully removing the endotracheal tube, replacing it with a simple nasal cannula.

“A little supplemental oxygen; it will help arouse him a little,” said the doctor. He gestured to a pair of buttons on the wall near the head of the bed. “Ring when he wakes; press the red alarm button if he shows signs of going into another seizure. We will be monitoring from the nurses’ station down the hall.” The doctor gave a brief, reassuring smile. “He appears to be over the worst of it, though. It is well you called for an ambulance when you did. Usually the sooner we can stop the seizures the better the prognosis for the patient.” He nodded to the two nurses and the trio left the room.

Juliet and Mercutio regarded each other then, as one, turned to stare at Tybalt, who slept on, oblivious. Silently they returned to their seats, one on each side of the bed, and as one they each reached for one of Tybalt’s hands. They exchanged small, worried smiles, then turned back to watch Tybalt as they settled in to resume their quiet vigil.

It was eight in the evening, and the sun was setting.


	13. Chapter 13

Tybalt stared at the packets of tablets and nodded as the doctor explained the new medication regime. He still felt drowsy and a little spaced out. He’d woken perhaps an hour ago to find Mercutio and Juliet chatting animatedly. He still wasn’t entirely certain how he felt about that. Nurse was hovering nearby, ever the faithful chaperone, whilst Mercutio appeared to be on his most impeccable behaviour - which somehow failed to reassure Tybalt as to the Prince’s nephew’s intentions towards his cousin.

He was privately quite gratified when Juliet broke off from their conversation to reach for his hand with a delighted and relieved smile; he didn’t miss the disgruntled look on Mercutio’s face as he was suddenly bereft of his young audience, though he swiftly schooled his expression into a relieved smile that certainly appeared sincere - at any rate, he certainly seemed to be fooling both Juliet and the Nurse, who came bustling over and managed to edge Mercutio out of the way with a swing of a hip that seemed entirely accidental and unintended as she reached for Tybalt’s other hand. He allowed her to take it and managed to summon a wan smile.

He’d tried to speak, which only brought on a fit of coughing, his throat sore and irritated; it felt like it had been scratched inside, and there was a strange, metallic taste in his mouth. The Nurse had rung for the medical staff but it was Mercutio who somehow managed to procure a cup of water with ice chips, which Juliet insisted on holding for him when he nearly spilled it with a hand that trembled. He had frowned at his weakness but submitted to Juliet and her Nurse’s gentle ministrations as a doctor and a pair of nurses arrived to take charge.

He had been prodded, poked, had his blood pressure, temperature and pulse taken, a small torch shone in each of his eyes until he waved the doctor away irritably, and finally pronounced fit to be released into the care of the Capulet family doctor with an admonishment to schedule an appointment with his neurologist.

He sat now on the edge of the bed and scowled at the white boxes of medication. Yet more pills; somehow he doubted they would work any more effectively than the others had, but he had nothing to lose by trying them. 

Juliet and the Nurse had gone to call for the car, leaving Tybalt to dress in the clean clothes they had brought him. He was aware of Mercutio’s watchful eyes, though the other man said nothing as he leaned against the window frame, arms folded as he merely observed. Tybalt could feel his hackles rise as he undid the flimsy ties that held the thin cotton gown closed; his back itched, as though he could almost feel Mercutio’s gaze. He resolutely ignored the sensation - and Mercutio - as he rose cautiously to his feet and began to dress. 

He lost his balance as he tried to don his jeans and nearly fell, but suddenly Mercutio was at his side, steadying him with a hand beneath his elbow. 

“Easy there -” 

“I can manage!” snapped Tybalt. 

Mercutio backed away, lifting his hands in silent surrender, then folded his arms once more and stood just beyond arm’s reach and watched silently as Tybalt finished dressing. Tybalt stood still, fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve, then finally glanced sideways at Mercutio.

“I... apologise,” he said slowly. “I believe I owe you my thanks.”

Mercutio clapped a hand over his heart with a look of feigned surprise. “Do my ears deceive me? Did I just hear Tybalt Capulet apologise to _me_? Be still my beating heart!”

Tybalt glared at him. “Must you turn everything into a joke?” he growled.

“Must you turn every joke into an insult?” retorted Mercutio stepping closer. Tybalt drew himself upright, lip curling in a sneer.

“You’ll find me apt to that if you give me enough occasion!” he snapped.

“Could you not take some occasion without giving?” quipped Mercutio as he squared up to Tybalt, his ire aroused and blue eyes flashing.

This was old, familiar ground. Tybalt had been thrown off-kilter by Mercutio’s behaviour but this was a dance he was well used to treading with the flame-haired youth, and he found himself on the verge of grinning fiercely.

They might have come to blows except Juliet and the nurse chose that exact moment to return. Both men froze as the door opened; Juliet and the nurse glanced up at them quizzically. 

“Cousin? Is everything well?” Juliet asked hesitantly as she stepped towards them.

“Well as any, and better than most,” replied Mercutio as he turned away. 

“Tybalt?” said Juliet uncertainly.

“It is nothing,” Tybalt replied curtly. “Will the car be here soon? The sooner out of this place the happier I’ll be.”

Mercutio turned on his heel and laughed harshly. “Tybalt, happy? Now there’s a sight I’d pay to see! No, on second thoughts, I don’t think my heart could take the strain of two surprises from you in one day, Tybalt; a third and you might very well be the death of me and then perhaps you’d have something to laugh about, eh?” He snatched up his jacket angrily as he glared at Tybalt then stalked towards the door. “I may owe you my life but I’ll be damned if I pay for it with your insults and sneers.” He brushed past the nurse and slammed the door behind him.

Tybalt had felt a thrill of excitement as Mercutio had squared up to him; he’d felt alive, his blood racing, but as the nurse shook her head at him in silent disapproval and Juliet regarded him with confusion, he felt the excitement drain away leaving him feeling tired, guilty and cold.

“The car is outside,” said Juliet quietly. He nodded dully and gestured for her to lead the way.

The disappointment in her eyes was almost too much for him to bear.

He was silent in the car all the way back to the estate, hunched in upon himself as he stared out the window. He could feel Juliet’s eyes upon him and sense the unspoken questions that hung in the air between them, but he could not bring himself to return her gaze.

He threw open the car door the moment it crunched to a halt upon the gravel drive before the house, uncoiling from his seat like a spring released, throwing himself forward and away from the nurse’s accusing glare and Juliet’s hurt. Once inside he brushed past his aunt without a word.

“Tybalt.”

He halted at his uncle’s voice but did not raise his head to look at Lord Capulet where he stood by the drawing room door.

“Tybalt, come here.”

Tybalt swallowed hard, then took the stairs two at a time as his uncle shouted his name behind him. He did not stop until the door to his room was shut behind him; he flung the bag of medications towards his desk, his coat to the floor, and threw himself down upon the bed, pulling a pillow over his head to muffle the sounds of his uncle and aunt shouting in argument once more.

He couldn’t get the image of Mercutio’s eyes, hurt and angry, out of his head, no matter how he tried. He threw the pillow aside and rolled onto his back, driving the heels of his palms against his closed eyes; it was no use. He couldn’t banish the images that insisted on replaying in his mind: the argument, Mercutio’s anger, his own guilt causing him to lash out verbally, taunting Mercutio into a fight - towards safer ground where he felt he understood the rules, at least. It was no good.

He rolled over onto his stomach and pulled out his phone, swiping a trembling finger across the screen to awaken it. He flicked through his contacts until he found Mercutio’s number, then haltingly he tapped out two words: _I’m sorry._

His thumb hovered over the “send” button as he stared at the screen for long minutes.

He hit “cancel” then dropped the phone and buried his face in his arms.

What was wrong with him?


	14. Chapter 14

Mercutio released the clutch and opened up the throttle. There was a reassuring solid yet muffled clunk as the Vincent obediently shifted gear, a powerful rumbling giving way to a throaty roar that was equal parts threat and promise like distant thunder on a cloudless day. The gleaming black and chrome bike sped over the black asphalt as Mercutio frowned, his thoughts only partially on the road.

The Prince would not be put off any longer; the audience with his prodigal nephew had taken over an hour, Mercutio forced to pay for his tardy return with a full report of the events at the Capulet ball. Mercutio’s temper, already set on edge from the altercation with Tybalt, had smouldered barely in check under the interrogation from his uncle. He had been the target of the assassination attempt and yet it seemed he was the one expected to give account of himself.

It would have served Tybalt right if Mercutio had given his uncle the full report he had threatened Lord Capulet with - yet when it came to it, he could suddenly hear again the sharp crack as Tybalt’s head was snapped backwards by the force of his uncle’s blow. He saw again in his mind’s eye a limp body sprawled beneath a willow tree and he had held his tongue.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Mercutio lifted his head and stared at the red-haired youth reflected in the mirror, one eyebrow raised as blue eyes regarded him curiously.

“A very good question,” answered Mercutio. “One to which I haven’t yet figured out the answer.

“You’re playing a dangerous game. He’s not one of your little two-bit whores. He’s the nephew of Lady Capulet.”

“And there was I thinking he was just the same; there’s certainly the odour of the cunt about him,” retorted Mercutio.

“That’s low, even for you.”

Mercutio dropped his gaze. “He’s an ungrateful bastard.”

“Who saved your life.”

“Damn you, Valentine, don’t you think I-” He turned, angry, but he was alone again.

Just like always.

Now he roared through the centre of Verona, the Vincent Black Shadow an immense monochrome beast that purred of freedom and a few hours to forget this wretched city. He weaved through the traffic, opening up the throttle as the road up ahead cleared. 

Benvolio had been surly on the phone; he’d had to bear the brunt of the Prince’s displeasure during Mercutio’s absence and he was disinclined to forgive him so easily just yet. He’d come around in time but right now, Mercutio was too full of spit and fire to be conciliatory. Romeo was moping over the departed Violetta and worse than useless company right now. That left the bike and the open road.

He slowed as he approached another intersection; the lights were shifting to red. With a curse he throttled back and the bike purred to a halt as he lowered a foot to the blacktop. Flipping the visor of his helmet up he tapped his fingers on the clutch handle impatiently as he waited for the green.

Something drew his attention from the corner of his eye; glancing at his right wing mirror he swore under his breath. He’d have known that tall figure stalking slowly along the dusty pavement anywhere, the long black coat flapping in the desultory breeze which tousled the long black hair.

Mercutio tapped his fingers on the clutch handle thoughtfully, then glanced at the light. It was still red. Abruptly he made up his mind.

He waited until Tybalt was almost level with the bike, then turned to face him.

“Get on.”

Tybalt halted, momentarily startled before his eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“We need to talk. Get on.”

Tybalt regarded him warily; Mercutio glanced briefly up at the lights. “The light’s about to change. Come on, we don’t have time to hang around.”

Tybalt stared at him, then seemed to come to a decision. Flipping the long tails of his coat out of the way he swung a leg over the bike’s rear seat then settled himself, tucking the tails in. Mercutio flipped his visor closed again and opened the throttle as the lights changed, the large powerful bike leaping forward.

He expected to feel Tybalt’s hands clutch at his waist and was surprised when he felt nothing as he changed gear and the bike responded with power. Glancing in the left mirror he noticed Tybalt seemed to be holding on with his knees, his hands resting easily on his long thighs.

So it was to be like that, eh? Mercutio grinned. He’d see how long it took Tybalt to make a frantic grab for his waist.

He deliberately headed for the main highway out of Verona; at this time of day he figured it should be fairly heavy with traffic, and he wasn’t disappointed. He began to weave in and out of the traffic, leaning into the turns first one way and then the other.

Damn him if the tall black-clad Capulet didn’t lean into the turns with him, gripping with his knees! His hands moved only once - to reach back to grasp the metal sissy bar behind the passenger seat. Tybalt leaned back into the bar and threw his head back, closing his eyes as the wind whipped his long hair away from his face.

Mercutio was not going to concede defeat just yet however. As the road ahead cleared, he opened up the throttle again and began to pour on the power, the needle on the dial slowly crawling towards a ton. He felt a thrill of exhilaration as the miles flew past, his anger steadily being dispelled by the simple joy of a fast bike and an open road on a bright summer’s day. His temper, ever mercurial at the best of times, could burn hot but never for long and he laughed for the simple joy of living. He distantly noted the needle of the speedometer hovering just over the line and then spared a glance at the mirror.

Tybalt rode pillion easily, his knees gripping the flanks of the bike as though astride some great black stallion. His hair streamed behind him and his eyes were closed against the wind, a rare smile upon his face. 

Mercutio kept half an eye on Tybalt even as he drew the rest of his attention back to the road. He hadn’t had any particular destination in mind when he’d set out earlier, driven only by the desire to get out of the city; but now he eased back on the throttle as he began to ride with purpose, taking the hill road up towards the forest to the north of Verona. There was a particular place he liked to go sometimes when life in the city became too stifling and he yearned to breathe free air away from watchful eyes, and he headed there now. He slowed the bike to a steady cruise as they entered the edge of the forest, the road starting to climb more steeply. He followed the road up through the woods, through a series of switchbacks, until finally they came out on the breast of the hill, the valley on the other side falling away below them.

He pulled over in a layby near the edge of the forest and switched off the engine then kicked down the stand. Pulling off his helmet, he rested it on the tank and ran a hand through his hair as he stared out over the trees. The silence after the steady roar of the bike was almost physically tangible. Tybalt was silent behind him.

After a few minutes, he dismounted the bike and moved a few steps away before glancing back at Tybalt. Tybalt drew his eyes away from the vista spread out below to glance back enquiringly at Mercutio, then followed suit.

“The view is beautiful,” he remarked quietly.

“Isn’t it?” Mercutio agreed.

Then he hit him.

The punch took Tybalt by surprise; his head snapped back and he took a step backwards. He lifted a hand to his face, touching his nose gingerly, then pulled his hand away to stare at the blood on his fingers before staring back at Mercutio.

Then he flung himself at Mercutio.

Tybalt’s fist connected squarely with Mercutio’s ribs, followed up by an elbow to the jaw; Mercutio fell back, landing a kick to Tybalt’s midriff that drove the breath from his body in an explosive huff. Mercutio tried to follow it up with a haymaker but Tybalt blocked the blow before riposting with an uppercut. Mercutio dropped his shoulder and drove it into Tybalt’s stomach and then they were both down, rolling on the ground in the dust, grappling at each other and trading blows. 

Mercutio managed to grab Tybalt’s wrists and rolled over so he was atop the slender man, legs astride Tybalt’s hips as he pinned his hands to the ground either side of his head. Tybalt glared up at him in fury.

Mercutio kissed him, and this time it was Tybalt who bit.

To his surprise, Mercutio merely groaned, releasing his wrists to thread his hands instead into Tybalt’s hair. He finally lifted his head to stare down at Tybalt, who licked the blood smearing his lips without thinking, then froze as he tasted the blood he’d spilled. He made no effot to push Mercutio away, instead regarding him with a stunned expression. Slowly, more tentatively, Mercutio bent down to kiss Tybalt again.

He could taste his own blood on Tybalt’s lips; warm, wet, the coppery tang filling his mouth as he probed past Tybalt’s lips with his tongue. Tybalt closed his eyes and submitted to the kiss with a faint whimper. When Mercutio pulled away again, he made a small noise of protest.

The sun was hot, the air silent save for the panting of the two men as they undressed each other then kissed once more, hands exploring bodies, occasional small cries or _yes_ , _please_ and _more_ punctuating the quiet. 

“Tybalt...”

“Yes.”

When it was done, Tybalt lay in Mercutio’s arms, his head pillowed upon Mercutio’s shoulder, his eyes closed.

“Tybalt?”

“No words,” whispered Tybalt, not opening his eyes. “I don’t want to talk. Not yet. Let me have just this time here with you in silence. I don’t want to think about what comes next.”

Mercutio relented, one hand gently rubbing circles over Tybalt’s bare shoulder before he leaned forward and lightly kissed the smooth skin. They lay like that for some time, until a slight breeze sprang up, whispering cool across their bare skin and Tybalt shivered.

“Come on, let’s get you dressed,” Mercutio said reluctantly. Tybalt sighed, but after a moment he nodded and rose.

Once they were dressed, Mercutio moved up behind Tybalt as he stared out over the forest and wrapped his arms around him, resting his chin on Tybalt’s shoulder.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, curious.

“That if it weren’t for Julia I should never want to go back,” Tybalt replied slowly. Mercutio nuzzled Tybalt’s hair.

“Stop,” said Tybalt softly.

“Why?” asked Mercutio as he pulled away slightly. Tybalt stepped out of his embrace and turned to face him, his expression wistful.

“Because it will only make it all the harder to return.”

“I don’t follow?” said Mercutio as he made his way over to the bike then turned to lean on it, folding his arms.

“Out here... this is our time. But that ends when we go back.”

Mercutio shrugged. “It doesn’t have to.”

Tybalt shook his head and sighed. “Mercutio -”

Mercutio raised his hand to forestall him. “Just - think about it.”

Tybalt shook his head. “It won’t work. It’ll be a disaster.”

“Won’t know unless we try,” shrugged Mercutio. “Look - don’t worry about it. Just take things as they come and see what happens.”

Tybalt looked unconvinced. Mercutio sighed. “Come on, the sun will be going down soon. We’d best be heading back.”

Tybalt nodded, and as Mercutio mounted the bike Tybalt climbed up behind him. As Mercutio kicked the bike into life, he felt Tybalt’s hands slip hesitantly around his waist. Mercutio dropped a hand to squeeze Tybalt’s hand lightly then he squeezed the clutch and opened up the throttle slowly.

Tybalt curled into his back, resting his head against Mercutio’s shoulder, and stayed like that during the quiet ride back. He was still silent when he dismounted outside the gates of the Capulet estate.

“Tybalt?”

Tybalt glanced back.

“Just... think it over.”

Tybalt regarded him silently, then nodded once. He turned and headed towards the house, not looking back.

Mercutio watched him until he was gone from view then kicked the bike back into life and headed home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A ton = 100mph
> 
> Vincent Black Shadow: http://www.carsfotodb.com/uploads/vincent/vincent-black-shadow/vincent-black-shadow-05.jpg


	15. Chapter 15

The sultry summer gave way to a warm, balmy September. The city bathed in the unseasonably warm weather; the light winds were just enough to make the air pleasant and bearable, and the citizens of Verona went about their business clad in a slightly more conservative version of their summer wardrobe as children returned to school and the heady, tense atmosphere of August gave way to a more withdrawn air, the slight chill in the evenings that drew in earlier and earlier by slow increments as the equinox arrived and then past promising the ice of winter to come. The inclement weather felt all too impermanent, and the howling winds that would herald the approach of winter could not be far off.

The people hurried about their business with an urgency that spoke of their unconscious awareness that this calm before the storms of winter’s heralding would be all too brief, and the heated exchanges between Montagues and Capulets which had plagued the city since June gave way to an uneasy peace as the city seemed almost to hold its breath.

Benvolio had grudgingly forgiven Mercutio at last, the Prince’s nephew’s quiet contrition finally thawing his slightly chilly distance. Romeo had finally shaken off his melancholy over the merchant’s daughter and things seemed to have finally returned to the easy state of comradery between the trio as it had before - save in one matter only.

Though Tybalt had seemed reluctant, a certain unspoken understanding had grown between the taciturn Capulet and Mercutio. To all appearances within the city they were coolly indifferent to each other, trading casual insults on those rare occasions they found themselves in each others’ company.

But from time to time, Mercutio would be overcome by a fit of restlessness in which he would prowl the streets, the powerful motorbike purring like some immense panther as it cruised the streets of the city. Benvolio and Romeo had learned long ago to let him go when the fey mood was upon Mercutio; they knew he needed to get this restlessness of the spirit out by himself.

And if sometimes during these rides he would encounter a certain tall figure walking alone near the city limits, no words needed to be said; a look, a glance, a slight nod of the head and they would depart silently. Where they went, none could have said, for none observed them depart except, perhaps, for the keen eyes of an aging woman who would watch them go, lips pursed, her gaze unfathomable as she turned away to attend to her charge - who every day resembled less and less the babe she had nursed and became more and more a young woman who would soon have no need of nurse.

Mercutio could not have said precisely _why_ he had kept secret his liaisons from Romeo and Benvolio; the trio had always been as close as brothers in all but name, but some rare natural caution kept him silent on the subject. Benvolio, perhaps, might have been understanding but Romeo almost certainly would not.

Valentine knew, of course. Valentine always knew. Wherever Mercutio prowled, restless, through the halls of the palace, he could feel the blue eyes watching him silently, unreadable; they stared at him over his shoulder in the mirror though Valentine was always gone when Mercutio finally turned to confront him. Like a ghost he haunted Mercutio, speaking neither approval nor censure; merely watching.

He wished Valentine would just say something. The silence was somehow worse than anything the younger man could say. But Valentine kept his counsel to himself.

As September drew on, it slowly became cooler, making private trysts high by the mountain road an increasingly chilly prospect. There finally came an evening when they found the sun setting as they lay together, and Mercutio realised Tybalt was trembling violently in his arms.

“Tybalt? Is it -” he began, his alarm rising though he tried to hide it.

Tybalt shook his head. “J-just cold,” he managed, his teeth chattering.

“I am an ass - I should have realised,” muttered Mercutio. “Come on, let’s get dressed before you take a chill.”

They dressed hurriedly, but Tybalt was still shivering as Mercutio opened up the throttle and pulled out of the layby, heading back towards the city. He could feel Tybalt’s body shudder as he curled against Mercutio’s back, and coming to a decision he pulled over at the first rest stop they came to and coasted the bike to a stop as close to the doors of the small coffee shop as he could get. 

Tybalt was stiff and moved slowly as Mercutio tugged him from the bike towards the coffee shop. He didn’t stop shivering until Mercutio had gotten three mugs of good strong, hot coffee inside him and Tybalt was capable of snapping peevishly when he tried to push a fourth mug on him.

“Enough, I feel jittery enough as it is,” Tybalt growled, waving Mercutio away.

“Glad to see your good humour is restored,” quipped Mercutio as he took a sip of his own coffee.

Tybalt exhaled slowly through his nose as he tapped his fingers on the table in irritation. Mercutio regarded him thoughtfully over the rim of his mug. Tybalt had mellowed somewhat over the past two months since they had begun their little clandestine... what, exactly? Could this be termed a relationship? If it was, then it was one in which neither he nor Tybalt had ever confirmed it as such - at least, not aloud. In the eyes of Verona nothing had changed between them. It was only out here, away from the city, that they could fully relax and explore wordlessly this connection between them. He dreaded the approach of winter, when they would be hemmed in again and little trysts like these would be no longer possible.

“We can’t go on like this,” said Tybalt in a low voice, unexpectedly voicing Mercutio’s own thoughts.

“You’re getting too good at that,” remarked Mercutio wryly. Tybalt frowned and inclined his head a little to one side.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Speaking my thoughts before I’ve realised I’m thinking them,” Mercutio clarified.

“Ah. Then you agree,” replied Tybalt, his shoulders slumping a little as he leaned back against the worn leather seat of their cubicle, cupping his hands loosely around his unwanted fourth mug of coffee.

“I didn’t say that,” said Mercutio.

“Then say what you mean,” replied Tybalt tiredly. Mercutio regarded him thoughtfully.

“You’re too skinny,” he observed. “No wonder you got chilled so easily and look so tired. You’ve not been eating properly.”

“You’re as bad as the nurse,” growled Tybalt as he abruptly pushed the mug away. “I neither want nor need your-”

“Tybalt.” Mercutio laid a hand on Tybalt’s wrist but the dark-haired man shook it off irritably as he got to his feet and strode from the coffee shop.

Scrambling to his feet, Mercutio pulled a handful of notes and change from his pocket and dropped them onto the table, not bothering to count it as he grabbed his jacket and followed Tybalt out into the parking lot. 

He caught up to the tall slender man in a few long strides and caught his wrist, hauling Tybalt to a halt. Tybalt spun and yanked his wrist ineffectually against Mercutio’s grasp.

“Let me go, Escalus!” snarled Tybalt.

“What’s wrong?” asked Mercutio, not relinquishing his grip. “You’ve been quiet the whole afternoon. This isn’t just coffee jitters. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” hissed Tybalt. “Just let me go.”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong,” insisted Mercutio.

Tybalt struggled to free his wrist and then took a wild swing at Mercutio, who blocked it easily with a forearm. “Tybalt, what-”

He got no further as Tybalt’s foot connected squarely with his stomach and he doubled over, letting go as he clutched his stomach. Tybalt turned to run but Mercutio launched himself at Tybalt’s legs and they both went down.

They wrestled on the hard tarmac, trading blows, Mercutio still bewildered by Tybalt’s behaviour though unwilling to give him quarter. Finally he managed to roll them both over so he was astride Tybalt’s hips, pinning him to the ground as he grabbed at the neck of Tybalt’s shirt, the fabric bunching in his hand as he drew back his other hand, clenched in a fist. He checked the blow abruptly as he stared down at Tybalt.

The dark-haired Capulet stared up at him, blood trickling down his face from one nostril as he touched his split lip cautiously with the tip of his tongue. Mercutio could feel his right eye swelling closed from a lucky punch Tybalt had managed to land, and his jaw felt stiff. He wondered which of them looked the worse.

Tybalt fell back against the tarmac as Mercutio straightened; the Prince’s nephew felt something catch in his hand and then suddenly give, and he stared at the locket in his grasp. It was round and silver; his thumb found the catch at the side almost without thinking, and the locket popped open. 

“Don’t!” exclaimed Tybalt, but it was too late; Mercutio had seen the portrait inside.

He stared at the small photo of Juliette, then lifted his eyes to stare at Tybalt, who stared back at him with a stricken look. 

“You love her.” It was a statement, not a question, but Tybalt slowly, wordlessly nodded. Mercutio’s mouth twisted into a wry, lop-sided grin. “Should I be jealous?”

“No,” said Tybalt. 

“She doesn’t know, does she?” said Mercutio slowly.

“And never will,” answered Tybalt quietly. “Please - give it back.” There was a note of quiet desperation in his voice.

Mercutio got to his feet and reached his free hand out to Tybalt, who took it and allowed Mercutio to haul him back to his feet. Tybalt held his hand out. “Please,” he repeated quietly.

Mercutio held out the locket and Tybalt hastily snatched it back. As he snapped it closed, Mercutio caught a brief glimpse of a second photo in the other half of the locket he hadn’t noticed before; a flash of ginger hair and eyes that might have been blue.

“Wait -” he began, but Tybalt clutched the locket close to his chest and turned away.

“I want to go home,” he said quietly.

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” asked Mercutio; even as the words left his mouth he suddenly realised and understood. Tybalt didn’t know how to deal with the inevitable end of what they had had for two all-too-brief months; he was protecting himself the only way he knew how by putting a space between them first.

Mercutio gently laid his hands on Tybalt’s shoulders and Tybalt’s shoulders stiffened. “Don’t,” he whispered, but Mercutio ignored the low plea as he wrapped his arms around Tybalt and rested his chin on the other man’s shoulder.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” breathed Tybalt, nonetheless closing his eyes and leaning back into Mercutio’s embrace.

“It doesn’t have to end this way,” said Mercutio softly. Tybalt laughed mirthlessly.

“How else can it end? We only have this - out here, just the two of us. Back there, we have nothing. You know this as well as I.”

“My uncle is holding a ball - a masquerade, for Hallowe’en. I’ll make sure you’re invited. You can stay the night.”

Tybalt shook his head. “No. We can’t. The risk -”

“I’ll take a chance on that,” replied Mercutio. “The question is - will _you_?”

Tybalt was silent for a long time.

“Tybalt?”

“I’ll think on it,” Tybalt finally said.

“Thank you,” murmured Mercutio as he pressed a gentle kiss to Tybalt’s temple. 

“You presume too much,” said Tybalt, though without heat. Mercutio smiled. 

“That’s why you lo-”

He got no further as Tybalt pulled out of his arms, turning to lay a long slender finger against Mercutio’s lips.

“Don’t say it.” He held Mercutio a moment with his eyes then turned and stalked towards the motorbike, swinging his leg over to settle himself in the pillion seat.

The ride back to the Capulet estate was all too brief. As Tybalt swung himself off the bike, Mercutio caught his wrist. “Think on it,” he urged quietly.

Tybalt stared at the ground in silence, then finally nodded. “I will.” 

Mercutio let him go, and Tybalt walked away through the great wrought iron gates towards the mansion, not looking back. Mercutio sighed then opened the throttle and pulled away.

Had he waited just a moment longer, he would have seen Tybalt pause on the threshold of the house and glance back for a moment before turning away once more.


	16. Chapter 16

As Tybalt made his way into the house, his hand reached into the pocket of his long leather coat to curl protectively around the locket. He pulled it out and stared at it as he began to climb the stairs. Reaching the landing he turned towards his room.

“Tybalt!”

He turned at mention of his name, snatching his hand with the locket behind his back as he paused and glanced back to where his aunt had just stepped out of her room. A querulous voice from inside called her to come back to bed; Tybalt recognised it for the voice of her current favourite amongst the menservants. Tybalt’s face was schooled into its customary mask; he gave no sign of having heard the man’s voice. If Lady Capulet chose to cuckold her husband beneath his very roof, that was her own affair. Tybalt was the last person with any right to chide her for her indiscretion - not after his dalliance with the Prince’s nephew.

“My Lady,” he said politely as he bowed. She swept imperiously up to him with a rustle of silk skirts as she took his arm and steered him towards his room.

“Tybalt, it will be your name day shortly, and we must plan something appropriate to your station. You will be twenty-one,” she said without preamble as they stepped into the room and she turned to close the door behind her. Tybalt strode swiftly to the desk and dropped the locket into a drawer, sliding it shut as he shucked off the heavy leather coat.

“My station is whatever your good lord husband decrees, my Lady,” Tybalt replied carefully as he made his way to the drinks cabinet and poured a generous measure of brandy for his aunt. He froze as he felt her slender hand come to rest upon his shoulder then slowly turned to face her, the glass in his hand.

“ _Dear_ Tybalt,” she purred softly as she took the glass from his hand. “Your father was my only brother. I loved him dearly. Your station is whatever _I_ deem it should be, you may depend upon that.”

She was standing too close, her eyes regarding him too intently. She took a sip from the brandy and then her small pink tongue darted out to catch a stray drop of the amber liquid, and Tybalt found his eyes drawn to her mouth. She leaned against him, and Tybalt felt himself trapped, the hard edge of the drinks cabinet digging painfully into his back.

Lady Capulet reached up and gently stroked his cheek as she tilted her head coyly to one side, regarding him from beneath her long eyelashes. “Ever the dutiful child, and now you are a man.”

Tybalt, unsure how to respond, chose to keep silent. The air seemed too close and heavy, the rose scent of her perfume almost overwhelming.

“Sit,” she told him, and he obeyed, dropping down silently into the leather armchair as she loomed over him. “Dear, _sweet_ Tybalt,” she breathed as she leaned closer, threading the fingers of her free hand into his hair. He stared up at her as she tilted her face towards his; he held his breath, his heart racing. Should his uncle enter at this moment...!

“You play a dangerous game, my Lady,” he murmured as she leaned in so close he could feel her breath ghosting across his lips. So close he could almost kiss her.

 _What was he thinking??_ And yet he dared not move. His station depended upon his aunt’s generosity. On the other hand, should his uncle enter to find them thus, he did not think even his aunt would be able to save him from his uncle’s wrath.

“Tybalt,” she breathed as she tightened her hand in his hair, even as his fingers tightened upon the arms of the chair, his body rigid.

“Your husband will kill me,” he breathed.

She paused and then gave him a coquettish grin. “My husband will do nothing, for there is nothing here for him to see, dear nephew.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “Is there?”

“No, my Lady,” he replied stiffly. She laughed softly and stroked his hair. 

“Good, _sweet_ Tybalt; ever the dutiful nephew,” she murmured as she kissed him chastely upon the forehead then leaned back, her hand stroking his hair before she stepped away and he could draw a breath once more.

“We shall have a ball,” she announced as she swept around the room, gesturing towards him with her brandy glass. “We shall invite the whole of Verona; it will be the talk of the city for a month and more, and you shall play your part. I shall be depending upon you, Tybalt.”

“ _All_ of Verona, my Lady?” queried Tybalt as he rose and hastily poured a generous measure of brandy for himself. He could not quite shake the feeling of being trammelled in a cage with a particularly ravenous tiger; he would rather be facing all the Montagues alone and unarmed than be trapped here right now. There were nuances and undercurrents to this conversation; the waters were deep and full of eddies, and he felt like a blind man drowning. He felt her eyes upon her and he closed his eyes, fingers tightening upon the glass. He thought of blue eyes and warm hands on his own cold skin, and he steadied himself as he opened his eyes. He must tread carefully here. His aunt was far too skilled at the art of intrigue, and he too unused to it. He took a drink from his glass to steady himself then turned to face Lady Capulet, his face once more schooled into impassivity as he returned to his seat.

She turned and flashed him a grin that was all teeth and little mirth, her eyes cold. “ _All_ of Verona, Tybalt. Yes, even the Montagues,” she added as he opened his mouth. Her smile was not reassuring. “I have my reasons, Tybalt. You must trust me.”

“My Lady, you know I dislike parties and fuss,” said Tybalt quietly. She swept towards him, and he closed his eyes as she reached towards him and cupped his chin in her hand. Her fingers were as cold as ice, as was her voice.

“We must all make sacrifices for the greater good of our House, Tybalt. Even you.”

“I live to serve, my Lady,” he said stiffly.

“Yes. You do,” she agreed, her fingers tightening until he was forced to open his eyes and stare up at her. She ran her thumb slowly across his lower lip then pressed lightly at the cut. “Who hit you, my sweet?”

“A Montague dog,” said Tybalt flatly. 

“And did you beat him thoroughly for his impudence?” Her voice was as cold as her hands. Tybalt thought of Mercutio’s black eye, the bruise upon his jaw. 

“Of course,” he replied blithely.

“Of course,” she echoed with a smile before pulling away. Tossing back the rest of her brandy, she handed the empty glass to Tybalt and swept towards the door.

“We will begin writing the invitations tomorrow,” she said breezily. “You will of course invite the Prince’s nephews. Mercutio _and_ Valentine.” She smiled enigmatically; and then she was gone and Tybalt was alone with his thoughts.

He drew a deep breath and downed what was left of the brandy in his glass then got up and reached for the bottle. Setting the glass aside, he cradled the bottle in one arm as he made his way to the door and locked it, then he fetched the locket with its broken chain from the drawer before retreating to the bed. His thumb found the catch easily, and he stared at the two pictures as he fumbled one-handed with the stopper of the bottle.

He drank himself to sleep, the empty bottle cradled against him and the locket held to his breast. He did not relax his grip upon it even as his eyes fluttered closed and he slipped into dreams.

***

He was vaguely aware of the bottle being plucked from his side. He opened his eyes slowly.

“Did you drink the whole thing yourself?” The voice was low and hushed, but he would have known it anywhere. He shifted his head slightly on the pillow. He had no idea how Mercutio had gotten in, and he was too drunk to care. But not so drunk as to be unaware of the risk he must have taken to get in here.

“Go ‘way,” he slurred slowly. “Not safe.”

“Nonsense, I can’t imagine anywhere safer,” retorted Mercutio in a brisk whisper. “Your door is locked, and no-one would look for me here.”

“Why _are_ you here?” asked Tybalt petulantly as he tried to sit up then fell back clumsily. “I’m drunk,” he said, faintly surprised.

“Yes, well, if you drank the whole bottle of brandy then I’m not surprised,” replied Mercutio as he tugged at Tybalt’s boots.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? Undressing you of course. Unless you prefer to sleep fully clothed?”

Tybalt managed to sit up, still clutching the locket to his chest. “No. You know what I mean,” he said slowly, trying hard to enunciate his words clearly. “What are you doing _here_?”

Mercutio sat back and gave up trying to wrestle with Tybalt’s boots and regarded the drunk man sombrely. “Because for some unfathomable reason I appear to give a damn about you and I was actually worried for you,” he admitted. “With good reason from the looks of things.” He gestured to the locket. “You have my picture in that locket next to the one of your cousin. Care to explain that?”

“No.” Tybalt flopped back onto the bed.

Mercutio sighed. “Tybalt -”

“Don’t. Don’t want to think,” said Tybalt quietly as he turned his face away. Thinking meant feeling, and he felt too raw, too confused. He didn’t want to face those feelings. He’d tried to put a space between them, push Mercutio away; it would be safer that way. Hurt less when the inevitable end came. But it hadn’t worked; he wouldn’t go away.

“And I’m not going any time soon, so you can stop muttering at me,” retorted Mercutio.

Tybalt gave up trying to ineffectually fight Mercutio off and allowed himself to be undressed. He felt Mercutio draw the down comforter up over him, and then the bed dipped slightly and there was Mercutio’s reassuring warmth pressed against his back.

He had dreamed of this often, and now he was too drunk to enjoy it properly.

Mercutio chuckled softly. “Go to sleep, Tybalt,” he said softly.

Tybalt fell asleep still clutching the locket, Mercutio’s arms around him; and if he dreamed that night, he did not remember.

When he awoke in the morning, his head pounding and a foul taste in his mouth, Mercutio was gone, and Tybalt wondered if he had dreamed him.


	17. Chapter 17

Mercutio stared at the invitation, turning it over in his hands. He stared at the signature at the bottom, then turned it over again to stare at the scrawled note on the reverse.

Tybalt’s handwriting was angular, sharp yet concise - much like the man himself, Mercutio reflected. The characters were formed simply with no flourishes, the message straightforward and to the point. “ _L.C. planning something. Expect trouble._ ” It was unsigned but Mercutio knew it came from his erstwhile lover.

Lover... yes, he supposed that was what they were, though neither had voiced it. He’d tried, but Tybalt seemed almost afraid of the word - if it could be said Tybalt truly feared anything. He had seen anger, hatred, fury upon the dark-haired Capulet’s face; latterly he had seen a gentler emotion there. In sleep, Tybalt had seemed almost at peace, though he never quite seemed to lose the ghost of a frown. Mercutio had lain awake and watched him sleeping long after Tybalt had sunk down into his drunken slumber. Even in sleep he seemed guarded, the locket clenched to his chest, never entirely relaxed. His sleep was restless and fitful; at one point he had murmured something only half-articulated in his sleep, turning towards Mercutio with one hand reaching for something only Tybalt could see in his dream. Mercutio had caught the hand, the fingers cold as ice, and brought it to his lips then drawn Tybalt back into his arms, soothing him with a quiet whisper until Tybalt sighed softly and sank back into slumber once more.

Yes, he had seen many emotions upon Tybalt’s face when he thought himself unobserved and the mask slipped a little. He had seen alarm and concern. But fear?

He flipped the invitation back over again and stared at the ornate lettering and florid prose. The feasting and pageantry promised a spectacular night to remember - and he had no doubt Tybalt would hate every moment of it. It reeked of Lady Capulet’s doing; he would have known that even without Tybalt’s scrawled caution.

He felt eyes upon him and knew what he’d see when he looked up. He reached for the open bottle of wine and ignored the figure in the mirror.

“You’ll go, of course.”

Mercutio refilled his glass then tossed the empty bottle towards the trashcan in the corner. It missed and rolled to join its empty mate with a soft clink. Mercutio raised his glass in a silent toast to the mirror then knocked back the wine before lowering the empty glass.

“Of course I’ll bloody go. I’m not going to leave him to suffer alone.”

“Suffer?”

“He hates these events, even more so when he’s to be paraded like some pet dog before society like this. Can’t say I blame him.” He stared at the invitation then glanced up to meet the blue eyes in the mirror, his expression sombre. “You’re invited.”

Valentine’s expression didn’t change. “Of course I am. She always invites me.”

“You’d think she’d let sleeping dogs lie.” Mercutio looked for another bottle; he thought he’d brought more with him. He couldn’t have drunk it already could he?

“Why should she? _You_ didn’t.”

“Damn you, Valentine, must you always -” His face twisted into a snarl as he pushed himself out of his chair, turning to confront his brother - but of course Valentine was gone. As always.

Mercutio slumped in his chair and turned back to face the mirror. “Damn you, and damn me too,” he muttered. He glanced across the messy dressing table then shoved the detritus aside to pull out a box. He stared at it, fingers hovering over the catches, then abruptly stood and shoved the box in a drawer, slamming it shut before turning away.

No. He wasn’t ready yet. Maybe never.

***

He leaned against a pillar, Romeo and Benvolio either side of him, and watched the figures on the dais at the far end of the room.

“He looks like a constipated cat with a stick up his arse,” observed Benvolio, gesturing to the tall figure of Tybalt as he stood next to his aunt and uncle, his face impassive and his bearing stiff and haughty.

“Maybe someone needs to pull it out, then,” suggested Romeo as he snatched a glass from a passing servant.

“Or push it back in,” replied Benvolio with a leer and an obscene snap of his hips. “You ask me, Tybalt could do with a good seeing to.”

“You think that’s his problem then?” grinned Romeo. “Going to offer to help him out?”

“Out of a hole or further into it?” responded Mercutio. “You ever were the generous one, Benvolio.”

“That’s me; always giving!” replied Benvolio with a grin.

“That’s not what the girls in the market say,” replied Mercutio absently.

“Better watch out, Benvolio!” laughed Romeo. “Or you’ll dig yourself a hole you can’t climb out of!”

“And what hole would that be?” Benvolio quipped back.

“Your own grave if you cross that one,” observed Mercutio. “I’ve seen him fight; he’s as deadly as ever his father was, stick up his arse or no. Take my advice, Benvolio; stick to the marketplace but keep your head out of the clouds or you’ll fall into a pit.”

“And what would _that_ pit be, dear Mercutio?” grinned Benvolio as Romeo smirked. Mercutio shrugged diffidently with an innocent look.

“I was simply observing that pits and holes should be filled so men don’t trip and fall,” he said.

Benvolio elbowed Romeo in the ribs. “And Romeo couldn’t agree more - he wants to fill every hole there is!” Romeo coughed and spat out his mouthful of wine.

“Ah, but by filling them he only makes them bigger,” replied Mercutio blithely.

“You were the one talking of filling Tybalt’s hole and pushing his stick in for him, Benvolio, not I!” spluttered Romeo.

“Well best you shut _your_ holes, the pair of you, because here comes trouble,” remarked Mercutio as he slapped them both with the backs of his hands and nodded to where Tybalt had taken note of them and was walking towards the steps down from the dais with a face like thunder, his aunt a step behind. “Split up, I’ll find you later,” he told them as he ducked behind a pillar. he slipped a hand into his pocket and fingered a small packet wrapped as neatly as he could manage that he had dropped in there before departing the palace earlier that evening.

“I don’t understand why you insisted on inviting that pack of dogs, my Lady,” Mercutio heard Tybalt growl as he and his aunt approached. “Montagues under the roof of the Capulets can mean nothing but trouble.” They halted a few footsteps away from Mercutio, and he chanced darting a quick glance around the pillar.

Tybalt stood only a few feet away, Lady Capulet close behind him. Tybalt suddenly stiffened, and from his hiding place Mercutio could see his aunt had slowly run her hand up his spine and up into his hair.

“Relax, my sweet; all eyes are upon you. This is _your_ night. Look, even the prince himself is here.”

“But only one of his nephews, my Lady,” replied Tybalt quietly. “What game are you playing? What did you expect?”

“You’ll see,” whispered Lady Capulet. Mercutio had to strain his ears to pick out the words. “I am not the only one playing games here tonight, Tybalt. Watch and learn; this is a game you must learn to play. The rules are simple but it takes a lifetime to master.”

“You mean the prince?” asked Tybalt.

“ _Good_ Tybalt. You see, how quickly you are learning already! Watch him, Tybalt.”

“Why? What is it I am to look for?”

“The hidden knife. There you see him, but the serpent is not toothless. Watch him carefully, Tybalt - and be careful how you play your own little games. Did you think I had not noticed?” Her hand tightened in Tybalt’s hair and Mercutio heard a pained hiss of indrawn breath.

“You need to learn discretion, my dear,” she hissed. 

He tugged his head free and turned to stare down at her; he towered over her diminutive frame. “As you have?” he asked softly.

Her face twisted in outrage and she drew back her hand to slap him but then checked herself. “Very good. Very good.... but I will not forget this, Tybalt.”

“Nor shall I, madam,” replied Tybalt as he bowed slightly. She nodded in acknowledgement then swept away, her heavy rose perfume scent lingering after her.

“You can come out now,” said Tybalt quietly, not looking at the pillar.

Mercutio emerged from his hiding place, glancing after Lady Capulet’s retreating back. He shivered. “I’d watch your back if I were you,” he said in a low voice. “I shouldn’t like to have her at my back.”

“She’ll do nothing to me,” replied Tybalt as he gestured to a servant who brought him a glass of wine. “I’m too useful to her.”

“And when you’re no longer of use?”

Tybalt ignored the question as he turned to glance out at the room. “Where did your dogs go?”

“Don’t talk of them like that,” said Mercutio warningly. “They’re my friends.”

“They’re not mine,” retorted Tybalt. 

“You invited them,” Mercutio pointed out as he stepped closer to Tybalt, letting one hand drift up to lightly stroke Tybalt’s back.

“Not here,” breathed Tybalt as his back stiffened once more. “Too many eyes.”

“Then where and when?” asked Mercutio as he let his hand fall reluctantly.

Tybalt opened his mouth to speak but snapped it shut as Prince Escalus approached them both through the throng. He pressed his right hand over his heart and swept down into a low bow, his long raven-black hair almost touching the floor before he straightened, flicking his hair back over his shoulder with a jerk of his head. “Your Highness. House Capulet is honoured to be graced with your presence.”

“Smooth, very smooth,” murmured Mercutio as he flashed his uncle a grin.

“I trust my nephew is not troubling you, Tybalt?” replied the prince, darting a reproving glare at Mercutio who sketched an elaborate bow towards his uncle in response.

“I have been the very epitome of the perfect guest, Uncle,” he replied. The expression on the prince’s face did not change.

“It is good to see House Montague welcomed with such open arms by House Capulet, Tybalt; are we to finally see an end to the rivalry between your two houses at last? Verona would be much the better for such a peace.”

“We can but hope, Your Highness,” replied Tybalt carefully. “I cannot claim to speak for House Capulet, alas; that would fall to my uncle.”

“You may be sure I shall speak to him also,” nodded the prince. “Congratulations upon your name day. You are twenty-one now. You remind me much of your father at the same age.”

“You are not the first to have made that comparison, sir, and I suspect you will not be the last.” Tybalt’s smile was tight, his green eyes untouched by humour. The prince nodded and clapped him upon the shoulder briefly.

“It is a compliment to you, Tybalt. I suggest you take it as such.”

Tybalt bowed once more in response.

“Come, Mercutio,” said the prince imperiously as he turned away. Obliged to follow, Mercutio darted a glance back over his shoulder to mouth “ _later_ ” at Tybalt. He made no sign of acknowledgement, the mask settled once more upon his face as he turned to stare out at the assembled throng.

Mercutio’s attention was claimed by his uncle for the next two hours as he was introduced to this noble or that dignitary, and when he could finally make his excuses his company was claimed by Romeo and Benvolio, and there was to be no escaping them. Mercutio acted the wit for his friends, laughing and leading them into dancing with a handful of Capulet girls, but one eye was ever upon the dais where Tybalt stood, a silent sentinel, his aunt ever present at his side.

As the guests began slowly to depart in the early hours of the morning, Mercutio looked for Tybalt but he had gone. Benvolio was tugging Romeo away from one of the Capulet girls - some niece of Lord Capulet, from what Mercutio vaguely remembered from earlier in the evening. Rosie? Rosalind? Rosaline? It was something like that. Mercutio shrugged and left Benvolio to deal with their friend as he caught the arm of a passing servant; an older man, with white hair and beard. “Where has Tybalt gone? I wanted to bid him good evening.”

“The young master has retired to bed,” replied the servant. “He had a headache.”

“I see,” replied Mercutio. He pulled the small package out of his pocket and pressed it into the servant’s hands. “Would you see he gets this please?”

“Of course, sir,” replied the servant. Mercutio nodded and turned away.

“What was that?” asked Benvolio as he dropped into step next to Mercutio.

“An apology,” replied Mercutio. “Come on, it’s late.”


	18. Chapter 18

October had brought howling gales and torrential downpours, and with them the end of summer. Tybalt was kept very busy as his uncle dragged him off to one business meeting or another, including a couple of trips to Mantua (during which Tybalt fretted privately with every minute spent away from Juliet, spending sleepless nights in lonely hotel rooms and returning exhausted, his temper frayed and yet held rigidly in check until he could retreat to the sanctuary of his room again). The small package remained ignored and forgotten on his dresser until the second week of October.

He had returned from a meeting with one of his uncle’s clients where they had been discussing security arrangements for a conference. The heavens had opened between his exiting the taxi at the gates and finally reaching the shelter of the porch, and he had been soaked through. Peter met him in the hall, swiftly relieving Tybalt of his overcoat and suit jacket as he handed a towel to his master.

“Draw me a bath,” ordered Tybalt.

“Lord Capulet has left word that he wishes you to meet him at the warehouse in the south quarter, sir,” said Peter as he followed Tybalt up the stairs.

“Can it not wait?” growled Tybalt, shaking the wet hair out of his face.

“The message said it was urgent, sir,” replied Peter apologetically. Tybalt swore under his breath. 

“I may at least take a shower and change, surely!”

“Lord Capulet’s orders -”

“Fine, fine, let me change my clothes. Order a cab for me for ten minutes’ time.” He took the remaining stairs two at a time.

Juliet had heard his voice and stood upon the landing outside her room. “Cousin, Father surely cannot expect you to go straight out again in this weather - it’s truly foul out there!”

Tybalt paused to take the small slender hand she held out to him. He dipped his head and bestowed a small kiss upon her fingertips, much as he had when they were children - he playing the gallant knight, she the lady fair. It had never failed to bring a smile to her lips and this was no exception. She blushed and dimpled prettily.

“I go where I am bid, Juliet; you know that. If your father has need of me then I must go.” He straightened and turned reluctantly towards his room.

“And what if _I_ have need of you?” she asked coyly. 

He thought his heart would stop. He stared back at her, lost for words.

“Oh Tybalt, I was just teasing you - don’t look so thunderstruck!” she smiled as she patted his arm. “Go, Father needs you, I know you must answer - but please, take care; the weather is not fit for man nor beast tonight. Don’t drown out there!”

“I-I won’t,” he managed to answer before turning and fleeing to the safety of his room.

When had she grown up? That tilt of her head, the flutter of eyelashes - almost like her mother for a moment. As Tybalt stripped swiftly out of his wet clothes and briskly towelled himself down, he reflected that it would not be long until the daughter outshone the mother. She would be sixteen on her next birthday, he remembered; no longer a child, and doubtless soon her parents would seek to make an advantageous match for her and she would be married and depart this house, whilst he -

He clutched at the edge of the dresser as he suddenly felt his chest constrict around a fierce, hot pain. He clutched at his chest as he fought for breath.

Juliet would marry. She would leave this house and be gone beyond his reach, given to another man. He shook his head in blind denial as he drew a ragged breath, then another. He would lose her all too soon.

He dropped into a nearby chair and stared at the dresser without really seeing it, his mind reeling over the realisation that in a few short months their lives would change forever. His eyes fell on something small - a packet of some sort, clumsily wrapped in dark red paper. He reached for it as a distraction from the cold numbness spreading through his chest, tearing the paper with hands that trembled.

A silver double chain slipped from the folds of paper, along with a small card that fluttered to the floor. He pooled the silver links in his hand and stared at them uncomprehending for a moment before he bent to retrieve the card. He turned it over.

_Hope this proves sturdier than the one I broke. I’m sorry. - M_

Tybalt blinked, then recalled that last ride with Mercutio; the fight in the parking lot, a broken chain. He fumbled through the drawers of the dresser until his fingers curled around the locket, and he pulled it out and found the catch with his thumb. It sprang open, and he stared at the two photos inside numbly, his thoughts wandering, before he closed the locket. He slipped it onto the new double chain, then jumped at a knock on the door.

“The cab will be here in five minutes sir,” called Peter. “Is there anything else you require?”

“No,” called back Tybalt. “Thank you,” he added, distracted. He rose to his feet and swiftly changed his clothes before scraping his long hair back out of his face and tying it back with an elastic. He carefully hung the locket around his neck; it felt reassuringly solid against his chest.

He snatched his leather coat from the wardrobe and made his way back downstairs again to where the car waited.

“Southern quarter, warehouse district,” he ordered as he climbed in.

***

The rain was easing as the cab pulled into the kerb beside the warehouse. Tybalt pulled a couple of bills from his wallet and handed them to the driver then climbed out. The warehouse was dark, no lights showing, and he wondered what had brought his uncle out here so late in the day. Not his to wonder why however. He headed towards the loading bay doors, splashing through the puddles. The roll-down shutters were closed, but the side door stood slightly ajar.

Tybalt halted and stared at the dark doorway then cast a glance around the empty loading bay and parking lot. Something felt off. Where was the car? He glanced back at the dark warehouse and his hand stole towards his knife as he took a step towards the door, stepping warily, his footsteps light and silent, all senses keenly alert.

He slipped silently in through the door then immediately dropped and rolled to his left a split second before the loud triple report of a gun on semi-auto letting rip at the spot where he had stood only a second previously, chewing three large holes in the door. Tybalt didn’t hang around to provide a handy target for a second attempt; he threw himself under a tanker lorry parked just inside the loading bay doors then immediately rolled to his left on his side towards the rear of the vehicle as bullets ricocheted off the concrete warehouse floor and chewed into the side panels of the tanker. There was the sound of fluid dripping from a ruptured pipe in the silence that followed, and Tybalt could smell the acrid tang of brake fluid and something else as he pulled himself up between the rear of the tanker and the loading bay shutter. He climbed swiftly up the narrow ladder that led to the top of the tanker then crouched there, breathing silently through his mouth as he held still and listened, calling up a memory of the layout of the inside of the warehouse and calculating where exactly he must be.

A voice called something low he couldn’t quite make out, and a voice on the other side of the warehouse replied. So, two of them at a minimum then. His eyes were adjusting rapidly to the dark, and a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention to a faintly-lighter patch of dark grey against the darkness. He drew a thin, needle-sharp tempered black carbon steel throwing knife from his left sleeve and drew his arm back then paused, holding his breath.

The figure moved again, and his hand snapped forward. As the man dropped with a strangled cry, he dropped his gun; under cover of the noise Tybalt rose and sprinted the length of the tanker, throwing himself forward as his feet cleared the end. His outstretched hands struck the edge of the mezzanine floor and he grasped it firmly, swinging himself up and rolling under the railing as shouts rang out below him.

He counted four voices above the gurgling sounds of the dying man. He had three throwing knives left, but there was a 9mm Beretta pistol locked in the desk drawer if he could make it to the office.

He heard booted feet pounding across the concrete below. At least two men had made for the metal stairs leading up to the mezzanine. He glanced around the dark floor, recalling how it would look in daylight. He could faintly make out the ends of the racks of shelving; they carried spare parts for motor vehicles, he dimly recalled. He’d been to the warehouse only a handful of times, but he recalled the office was at the far end of the mezzanine, beyond the shelves. 

Thought was movement; he sprinted down the nearest aisle on the balls of his feet, what little sound he made obscured by the sounds the two men were making on the metal floor. He ducked around the end of the length of shelving and held his breath, fingering the hilt of a throwing knife as torchlight played along the aisle and glinted off metal parts. The circle of light dropped to the floor and retreated as the men turned away, and he moved.

His arm snapped forward as he spun to face back down the aisle and he continued his spin, pressing his back against the end of the next set of shelving as there was a muffled cry behind him. A moment later gunfire chewed its way up the length of the aisle; under cover of the sound he dove into a roll that carried him along four more aisles, rising to his feet with another blade clutched between the fingers of his right hand. His mind was focused and alert, and he had never felt so incredibly _alive_ as he did right now with three men seeking his death. As the other man appeared at the other end of the aisle, his hand snapped forward and he was moving again.

Not quite fast enough however. Even as the man went down with a gurgling cry, Tybalt’s blade buried to the hilt in his chest, the man’s finger tightened reflexively upon the trigger, spraying a hail of bullets on full auto, the recoil pushing the limp arm up so the bullets traced an arc across the aisle. Tybalt ducked out of the way but not swiftly enough as a stray bullet ripped through the leather of his coat. As he threw himself down upon the floor he could feel a hot wetness spreading across his side, followed by a hot searing pain. He clutched his ribs and fought not to cry out. He could feel a pulpy wetness beneath his left hand, and something grated agonisingly in the wound. Distantly he noted that at least one rib must have shattered; a little higher and to the left and he’d be coughing blood. 

He could feel the mezzanine vibrating as the other two men sprinted up the stairs. He had one throwing knife left besides the dagger on his hip. He might take one of them down but that would still leave the other, and he didn’t fancy his chances. 

He felt his phone vibrate in his coat pocket even as he pushed himself up to his knees then managed to make it to his feet. He fumbled the phone out one handed as he stumbled towards the office, the sound masked by the footsteps of the other men as they reached the top of the stairs.

Mercutio. Of course it was Mercutio. He flicked his thumb across the screen to silence the phone before it could give his position away. There was nothing Mercutio could do to help him. He was too far away.

He heard a shout behind him as he reached the door of the office, and the roar of full auto fire as he slammed his shoulder into the door. He fell into the office and cried out as he fell heavily against the desk. He breathed a fervent yet blasphemous prayer to whichever deities might be watching that the gunmen were such lousy shots - and that the desk drawer had been left unlocked.

The light overhead flicked on. “There he is, get-” began one man, but even as he spoke Tybalt was turning and raising the Beretta. He tapped the trigger lightly and the gun spat twice, two three-round bursts - one for each man, impossibly loud in such a small space. They dropped, and there was silence as the echoes died away through the warehouse, broken only by the sound of Tybalt’s harsh breathing.

His phone buzzed again insistently and Tybalt pulled it out as he slumped into the leather chair behind the desk.

“Tybalt, where-”

“Your timing is as impeccable as ever, Escalus,” said Tybalt tiredly. He stared at the two dead men and let the phone drop.


	19. Chapter 19

Mercutio pulled his bike over to the side of the road to let the guard van through and then followed it into the parking lot, coasting to a stop in a corner out of the way; kicking the stand down he swung his leg over the seat and jogged across the road towards the warehouse. People were swarming around it - both guards and Capulet men, though he noticed a couple of his uncle’s senior men standing around as well. They straightened as he approached him.

“Where is he?” he demanded tersely.

“Office upstairs,” gestured one of the officers. Mercutio nodded and headed inside.

“Old man Capulet’s up there! And your uncle!” he called after him; Mercutio lifted a hand to show he’d heard but didn’t glance back. He took the stairs to the mezzanine two at a time and glanced to the guard stationed near the top of the stairs.

“Which way is the office?” he demanded. The guard gestured towards the rear of the floor and Mercutio nodded thanks before hurrying down between the aisles of shelves.

He found Tybalt in the office, sitting on the edge of a desk. He was stripped to the waist, a large dressing taped across his ribs on his right side. What looked like a bloodstained shirt was balled up in his left hand. Tybalt winced slightly as the paramedic began winding a bandage around his torso and Lord Capulet stepped forward with a hand raised to strike the man.

“Dolt! Be more careful!” he fumed as the paramedic ducked away.

“Peace, uncle,” said Tybalt; he sounded tired and worn. He let the bloodstained shirt drop to the floor then glanced up as Mercutio stumbled to a halt in the doorway. He said nothing as Mercutio stared at him.

“The rib will need surgery,” said the paramedic. “There’s nothing further I can do here.”

Lord Capulet looked as though he were about to explode at the poor man again but Tybalt merely nodded. He shifted his weight on the table then pushed himself to standing, gritting his teeth as he pressed a hand against the dressing. His uncle slung an arm around his waist.

“Easy, boy, sit down - we’ll get this sorted out in no time,” he said in gentler tones than Mercutio had ever thought he’d heard coming from the old man.

Mercutio finally found his voice. “What happened?”

“An ambush,” replied Prince Escalus as Tybalt waved his uncle away.

“Montagues,” spat Lord Capulet.

“You have no proof of that,” said the Prince.

“What proof do I need? They lured him here to kill him! Who else would do that but Montagues?”

“These are serious allegations, Capulet,” warned the Prince. “This goes much farther than a simple matter of brawling in the streets. That, I can overlook, but this? The citizens of Verona will demand I take action.”

“Then take it!” demanded Lord Capulet. “Hold those wretched Montagues accountable! First they killed my wife’s brother, and now they have tried to kill his son! Must you wait until they have killed him too? I will not stand for it!”

“You _will_ stand for it, by my command, Capulet!” roared the Prince. “Or have you forgotten who rules this city?”

“Then rule it!” hissed Capulet. “Blood will call for blood, Escalus; they have harmed my House and must pay!”

“You forget your place, Capulet,” growled Escalus. “There will be no taking of vengeance, this or any other night, or I shall know at whose feet to lay the blame - do you hear me?”

“He hears you, my Lord,” said Tybalt tiredly. “Uncle, peace. We will have justice, the Prince will see to that.”

“You are injured and weakened from blood loss or you would not accept this so meekly, my boy,” Capulet shook his head.

“He is a man and no boy, and understands the value of discretion better than his elders,” remarked the Prince. “You would do well to learn from his example instead of chastise him.” He glanced to Mercutio. “Stay here; I must speak with Lord Capulet.” 

“I’m sure Tybalt doesn’t need a babysitter,” said Mercutio as he leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms.

“But evidently you do,” responded his uncle. “You will stay.” He turned to Tybalt. “I have called for my personal ambulance to convey you to my own clinic. My personal physician will tend to you. I hope my wayward nephew will not irritate you overmuch whilst you wait.”

Tybalt shot Mercutio a baleful look, but the Prince’s nephew saw a flicker of gratitude in the green eyes. 

Escalus nodded to them both before turning on his heel and gesturing for Lord Capulet to follow him. Mercutio waited until they were out of earshot, then hastened to Tybalt’s side.

“Were they really Montagues?” he asked as he helped Tybalt into the chair. Tybalt gritted his teeth and pressed a hand firmly against the dressing.

“Who else would they be?” he said tersely. “You picked a poor crowd to run around with, Mercutio.”

“I don’t see Benvolio or Romeo amongst the corpses you left lying around,” retorted Mercutio.

“More’s the pity,” snapped Tybalt.

“What harm did they ever do you?” asked Mercutio quietly. 

“Have you forgotten it was Romeo’s father who slew _my_ father?” snarled Tybalt as he twisted to glare at Mercutio. His face suddenly blanched and he clutched at the dressing with a groan. Spots of fresh blood had seeped through the dressing.

“Where’s that damned ambulance?” muttered Mercutio.

Tybalt slumped in the chair. “I haven’t the energy to fight you,” he sighed.

“Why are we fighting at all?” asked Mercutio. 

“I don’t know,” Tybalt replied quietly. Mercutio dropped into a crouch by Tybalt’s knee.

“Did you really kill five men all on your own?” he asked softly. Tybalt snorted.

“You saw the corpses didn’t you?” Tybalt let his head drop back against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. “It’s what I do, what I’ve trained for every day since they killed my father.”

“You’re a man to be feared, it’s true,” nodded Mercutio. he glanced towards the door; the sound of an ambulance siren drifted up from the road nearby, and he got to his feet.

“Maybe I’m tired of being feared,” said Tybalt softly, but Mercutio didn’t hear him.

***

They wouldn’t let Mercutio ride in the ambulance, and he didn’t push the point. That might have required more explanations than either he or, he guessed, Tybalt, would feel comfortable giving. Lord Capulet accompanied his nephew to the Prince’s private clinic facility whilst the Prince’s men dealt with cleanup at the warehouse. The five corpses were transferred to a van and taken away; Mercutio didn’t ask where. He’d learned long ago that some things it was better not to question.

Prince Escalus sent him back to the palace; the ride back was short through near-empty streets. He parked the bike in the underground lot then took the elevator up to his own quarters; he peeled off his jacket as he entered the lounge and threw it in a corner before continuing through into the bedroom, snatching up a bottle of brandy on the way. He twisted the cap off the bottle as he dropped into the chair before the dresser and swung a leg up to rest his boot on the dresser top.

“Come on out and show yourself,” he called. “I know you’re there. You’re always there, watching me.”

“Of course.” 

“And if I turn around you’ll be gone again.”

“Maybe I won’t.”

Mercutio snorted and took a swig of brandy straight from the bottle. “We both know how this game is supposed to be played.”

“And you so love your little games.” The blue eyes regarded him from the mirror. “Drinking on an empty stomach?”

“ ‘s not like a full one would make much difference.” He took another long pull. “He’s here, you know. In the clinic.”

“Tybalt?” Was that a flicker of interest in the blue gaze? “Is it wise to get drunk when your lover is so near?”

“Don’t call him that.” Mercutio’s voice was surly.

“Why - because he will not?”

That stung. Mercutio wanted to turn and confront Valentine, but held himself still with an effort. “Don’t. Don’t taunt me like that. Not about him.”

He watched in the mirror as Valentine folded his arms and leaned against the door frame. “I’d like to meet him.”

That did bring Mercutio to his feet. “No! Valentine, don’t you dare, don’t you...!” He turned but of course the doorway was empty.

“Don’t you dare,” he whispered to the empty room.


	20. Chapter 20

Moonlight filtered through the empty branches of the tree outside the window and cast shadows like grasping witches’ fingers across the wall. The dark fleur-de-lys pattern upon the wall looked like blood, black stark against the silver of the moonlight. The room was rendered into monochrome and silence save for the sound of his breathing and the fluttering of a few dead leaves on the tree. Dead things that hadn’t yet learned to let go of the memory of living. Perhaps there was a metaphor in there somewhere, though the significance eluded him for the moment.

He had come around a few hours ago to a dull ache in his side that was muted by the fuzzy feeling of opiates. The rib had been pinned, the surgical wound dressed and his left arm put in a sling; it wasn’t until he asked that they informed him he’d badly wrenched his shoulder when he forced the door open. In the immediate aftermath of the fight the pain from the shattered rib and shock from resulting bloodloss had masked that from his shoulder.

He’d been quietly surprised by the seeming change in attitude towards him from his uncle, though outwardly his face had remained neutral and impassive as always. He had accepted his uncle’s praise in dealing so efficiently with the Montague thugs with a simple nod of acceptance and acknowledgement - after all, he had simply done what he was trained to do. The Prince had promised to devote resources to tracking down who was behind the ambush, but Lord Capulet had little faith in them uncovering anything of use and promised Tybalt he would initiate an investigation of his own.

It seemed that however Lord Capulet may feel about his nephew, an attack on a Capulet - _any_ Capulet - was taken as an attack on the whole of House Capulet and an insult that could not be born, and Lord Capulet’s perpetual disappointment in Tybalt had been swept aside by his pride in him for having demonstrated to the Prince himself that no Capulet should ever be underestimated. Tybalt’s reputation - already fairly formidable - had been bolstered by the way he’d handled the situation and in turn enhanced the reputation of House Capulet as a whole, and for the time being at least he was the golden boy.

Until old Capulet needed another scapegoat, at any rate. Tybalt had little confidence that the change would be more than temporary. Still, for now it made a pleasant change.

The Prince had had Lord Capulet escorted to a car with the promise that Tybalt would be quartered in the finest guest suite until sufficiently recovered to return home, which was how he found himself sitting in a chair by the window in the early hours of the morning, restless and unable to sleep. The anaesthetic and painkillers were slowly wearing off and he was aware of a growing discomfort in his ribs and shoulder but chose to ignore them. He studied the shifting pattern of shadows as one hand toyed with the locket on the double chain around his neck, his fingers tracing lightly over the delicate engraving that was almost as familiar to him as the lines on the back of his own hand. He felt a mild, unplaceable restlessness; a feeling that something were somehow out of place, though he could not have put his finger on what that might have been. Briefly, irrationally he wished Marlowe were present. There were no cats in this palace, or none that he had seen.

A movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention to the mirror in the corner. It was a full-length antique cheval mirror; it was tilted at just the right angle for him to have a full view of himself in the chair and the room behind him. He blinked at the tall red-head who stood behind him, watching him in the mirror.

“I didn’t hear you enter. How did you -” He made to rise but Mercutio lifted a hand to forestall him.

“Don’t turn around. Please.”

Tybalt frowned a little but relaxed back into the chair, watching Mercutio in the mirror. “You couldn’t sleep either I take it?”

Mercutio shrugged. “I wanted to see you.”

“I am as you see me,” replied Tybalt. “Well enough, all things considered.”

“What happened to your arm?” Mercutio leaned on the back of the chair, his blue gaze directed not down at Tybalt, but at his reflection in the glass. Tybalt restrained the urge to look up at him.

“I had to break in to the office. Apparently I wrenched it but with everything else going on I just didn’t notice. The doctor said it should be fine in a few days.” He shrugged without thinking then winced as his shoulder flared with a brief stab of pain.

Mercutio nodded, folding his arms on the back of the chair and resting his chin on them as he watched Tybalt.

“You’re unusually quiet,” remarked Tybalt.

“Am I?” asked Mercutio.

Tybalt leaned forward and started to turn. “Don’t look round,” said Mercutio sharply. Tybalt froze, half-turned in his seat.

“I don’t understand. Is this some kind of game? Mercutio, it’s rather late for this kind of foolishness don’t you think?” asked Tybalt testily. “I’m tired and in some discomfort. Could we not dispense with games?”

“A game... yes, I suppose it is a game,” said Mercutio.

Tybalt sighed and leaned back in the chair, letting his head rest against the back as he stared at Mercutio’s reflection from beneath lowered eyelashes. “Will you... stay with me tonight?” he asked quietly.

“To watch over you as you sleep?”

“That’s... an odd thing to suggest,” said Tybalt slowly. “Mercutio, you sound most unlike yourself - are you alright?”

Mercutio gave him a lopsided smile. “If I don’t sound like myself, then who do I sound like?”

“Riddles again,” sighed Tybalt. “I thought we were past all that.”

“Did you? But there are riddles all around you, Tybalt. You’re a walking riddle.”

“You make no sense,” complained Tybalt. “I’ve had enough of this.” Clutching at the arm of the chair with his good hand he managed to struggle clumsily up out of the chair. “Mercutio, just what has gotten into you? You’re ....” His voice tailed off as he turned to find he was alone in the room, the bedroom door standing ajar.

He stood there, nonplussed and feeling a little angry at Mercutio - and no small amount of worry for him. Something was distinctly wrong here. Mercutio had been almost like a stranger, his face impassive, the only animated thing about him the intense blue eyes that had drunk in the sight of him in the glass as though he had never seen Tybalt before.

An intense weariness had come over him, and he moved towards the bed, resolved to confront Mercutio on the morrow and get to the bottom of his strange behaviour. It was too late, the halls too dark to go chasing red-haired ghosts through the Prince’s palace tonight. Whatever game Mercutio was playing could wait until morning - preferably after coffee.

He climbed awkwardly onto the bed and arranged himself as comfortably as possible, opting to sleep in his clothes rather than struggle with undressing one-handed. He dragged the down comforter up and was asleep in minutes.

***

He became aware of someone calling his name; he opened his eyes slowly, sleep releasing its hold upon him reluctantly. 

“At last! I was beginning to worry I might have to call the doctor,” said Mercutio as he perched himself on the edge of the bed and grinned. “Those must have been some seriously good drugs they gave you!”

Tybalt rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. “I’m not sure what they gave me.” He struggled to sit up; Mercutio shifted around to slip an arm about his shoulders and help him up, then handed him a cup of strong black coffee.

“No sugar, no cream, just the way you like it,” he smiled, then pulled a face. “I don’t know how you can stand it like that - bitter stuff,” he added as he stirred cream and sugar into his own cup.

“And I cannot fathom how you can drink that after the amount of sugar you just stirred in,” shrugged Tybalt as he settled himself against the pillows and took a sip of the coffee.

“Cats like cream, I thought?” teased Mercutio.

“I am not a cat,” stated Tybalt flatly.

“No? I bet I could make you purr,” suggested Mercutio with a wink. Tybalt merely lifted an eyebrow as he drank his coffee. “I must be losing my touch, I was sure you’d at least snort your coffee,” continued Mercutio. “Or has the cat got your tongue?”

“No, but it seemed to have yours last night,” observed Tybalt casually as he lowered the cup.

Mercutio choked as an inopportune mouthful of coffee went down the wrong way. He spluttered for a moment then stared at Tybalt wide-eyed. “Last night?”

Tybalt had paused with his cup halfway to his lips. Whatever reaction he’d expected from his casual quip, this wasn’t it. “You... don’t remember? You came to this room and stood behind me to watch me in the mirror. You don’t remember this?” He frowned. Mercutio’s reaction was too genuine to be part of some game. Mercutio had gone pale.

“I... I sleepwalk sometimes,” said Mercutio faintly. “Excuse me, I... I don’t feel very well....”

“Mercutio?” Tybalt was growing alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing... everything... I can’t explain, it’s too....” He turned to Tybalt with wild eyes. “Tell no-one of what happened. No-one, do you understand?”

“No, I _don’t_ understand - Mercutio, what is wrong? What are you afraid of?”

Mercutio backed away, shaking his head. “Nothing. Nothing that need concern you. Just... just rest, drink coffee, I’ll be back later.” He stumbled a few steps backwards then fled.

Tybalt threw back the down comforter and swung his long legs over the side of the bed then headed after Mercutio, all thoughts of resting or coffee forgotten. He headed swiftly into the hall then paused, glancing up and down the corridor before his sharp ears caught the sound of hasty footsteps. He pursued the sound, following Mercutio through the winding passages of the palace, down a flight of stairs and through another hall until he came to a flight of stairs near what appeared to be a kitchen that seemed familiar. He headed up, his footsteps light and sure as he followed Mercutio.

At the top of the stairs a door opened up into another hallway; there was no sign of Mercutio but about halfway along the hall a door hung open. He made his way along the hall and ducked into the room.

He was standing in a lounge very similar to the one in the suite he’d been given; Mercutio’s dark red leather jacket thrown carelessly over the back of a cream leather sofa proclaimed these were Mercutio’s rooms. The door to the bedroom stood open, and Tybalt headed towards it but halted as he heard voices from the other room. One was low, talking in a near-whisper that Tybalt couldn’t quite make out, but the other voice was undoubtedly Mercutio.

“Why must you do this? I told you to leave him be!”

A quiet murmur.

“I don’t care! I’ve had enough of the damned games! Can’t I have just this? Just this once, a little something for _me_? Haven’t I paid enough?”

That other voice again, and then the sound of an angry, inarticulate scream over shattering glass. Silence, save for Mercutio’s ragged panting for long moments as Tybalt stood there, frozen to the spot. Then Mercutio spoke again, his voice quieter, almost contrite.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Valentine. Don’t - just, please. I’m sorry.”

Tybalt backed away. This wasn’t his place; these were things he was not meant to hear. He understood only too well the nature of secrets within a family; he held his own too close, too precious to feel comfortable intruding on Mercutio like this. He was not good with words, but silence... yes, he knew how to keep silent, to keep secrets - his own, and those of others.

He silently backed away.


	21. Chapter 21

Mercutio watched Tybalt covertly from the corner of his eye as he leaned against a glass case, but Tybalt was oblivious to his scrutiny. The dark-haired man was intent upon the antique sword in the glass case before him.

“It’s beautiful. It’s rare to find a Heinrich Koell in such good condition - it’s immaculate,” he murmured. Mercutio glanced at the rapier; one sword was much the same as another to him. Oh, he’d learned to fence as all the nobility did; it was one of those things that you just _did_ , along with the etiquette lessons, politics, economics and all the rest that went along with being a scion of one of the old noble families of Verona. He’d never seen the point behind the anachronistic weapons, in an era when a smartphone, a fast connection, the right apps and your wits could do far more damage to a man’s credibility and reputation than a piece of sharp steel - no matter how pretty; he had never been able to fathom the point behind the wearing of swords. A gun with silencer or a sharp knife were better, more discreet weapons if you were intent on ending a man’s life.

And yet, it had been Tybalt’s idiosyncratic clinging to outdated custom that had saved his life; had Tybalt not customarily been wearing a rapier at the Capulet ball then Mercutio would likely have been dead by now. He glanced again at the sword and tried to see it with Tybalt’s eyes. 

“My uncle said it dates from about 1650. It’s been in the family for decades. He has a fondness for a good blade,” remarked Mercutio, and was rewarded with a rare, delighted grin as Tybalt glanced up. “And appreciation for one with the skill to wield such a blade,” added Mercutio and was privately pleased as Tybalt ducked his head self-consciously, a faint blush upon his cheeks.

“Hey, none of that - he recognises skill and talent when he sees it,” said Mercutio as he lightly punched Tybalt’s good shoulder. “Don’t be ashamed of it - you worked hard enough to achieve it.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear a blade,” remarked Tybalt as he glanced round the walls of the armoury. Mercutio followed Tybalt’s gaze and sighed. 

“I was always an indifferent pupil at best; certainly not worthy of any blade here.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” remarked Tybalt. “You’re handy enough with a knife; I’ve seen you. You’re light on your feet, have a keen eye -”

“And no killer instinct to speak of, much to my uncle’s disappointment,” finished Mercutio with a wry grin. He turned and rested his hip against the glass case, his arms folded as he tilted his head and studied Tybalt, who had turned back to peer through the glass once more.

He was glad he’d brought Tybalt to the armoury; the tall slender Capulet had been sufficiently distracted by the collection of fine swords and blades that he had thankfully said not one word about the strange nocturnal visitation. 

Tybalt glanced up at the swords upon the wall then turned to glance around the hall with a contented look upon his face. “It is truly a magnificent collection. I’ve rarely seen so many excellent specimens of work of this calibre in one place before.” 

Mercutio propped his elbow on the glass case and rested his chin on his hand. “They say it takes one to know one.” He grinned.

Tybalt blinked and stared at him; he seemed unsure whether Mercutio were complimenting or teasing him. He turned his gaze back to the display upon the walls. Still grinning, Mercutio straightened and wandered over towards the far wall. He scanned the rows of hanging weapons within reach then lifted a long rapier with scabbard down from its mount. He turned and walked slowly towards Tybalt, who regarded him warily as Mercutio drew the blade from the scabbard. 

Mercutio eyed the engraved blade thoughtfully, then glanced at Tybalt. Then he threw it underarm to Tybalt, hilt first.

Tybalt reacted precisely as he had expected, his good right arm snapping up, hand held palm outwards, thumb down in the precise position to catch the rapier by the hilt in a firm, sure grip. He twirled it down and into the en guarde position as he shifted into a fighting stance without thought, then paused, staring at the rapier.

“It suits you,” observed Mercutio. “Almost frighteningly well.”

Tybalt straightened slowly, hefting the sword in his hand to gauge the balance before turning the rapier slightly in his hand to inspect the ornate quillions, silver wire-wrapped hilt and the elaborately-styled pommel. “Ferarra, or I miss my guess,” he said quietly.

Mercutio glanced back at the wall to the small placard below the empty space where the rapier had hung. “You don’t,” he replied. “1578 apparently.” He looked back at Tybalt and inclined his head in a respectful nod. “You certainly know your swords.”

Tybalt lowered the blade and shrugged. “It comes with the territory.”

“Being a swordsman?”

“Being a killer,” replied Tybalt tonelessly as he held the rapier out to Mercutio. “A good workman knows his tools.”

Mercutio felt at a slight loss for words as he studied Tybalt’s face. A change appeared to have come over the dark-haired man, his mood abruptly become sombre as his face darkened. As Mercutio took the sword and slid it smoothly into the scabbard, Tybalt turned away.

Mercutio replaced the rapier in its customary spot then turned and glanced over toward Tybalt, who was standing by the doorway with his back to the room. As Mercutio walked towards him, Tybalt lifted his good hand to rub absently at his injured shoulder. Mercutio came up behind him and lifted his hands to wrap them loosely around Tybalt’s waist, choosing to ignore the way he stiffened.

“Don’t,” breathed Tybalt.

“Why? We’re alone here. No-one’s going to see.” He nuzzled Tybalt’s neck; Tybalt pulled away with a faint sound of annoyance. Mercutio let his hands drop. “You’re being moody again.”

Tybalt turned to face Mercutio. “I thought that was part of my charm? Or has the novelty worn off?” His voice was bitter. “Perhaps then you would find your right hand a better partner than I.”

“It would certainly be warmer; your hands are like your heart,” replied Mercutio, “Which is to say as cold as ice and twice as sharp; one is apt to prick oneself upon it, and therefore my right hand would indeed be the kinder partner.”

“I am what I am,” retorted Tybalt, glaring at Mercutio.

“Which is?”

“A killer. Had you forgotten?”

Mercutio shrugged. “That is but a role a man may play, not who he truly is.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you were familiar with how it feels.”

Mercutio felt his blood run cold. Distantly he heard himself say, “Then may that feeling never be familiar to me.”

“It’s just a word to you, isn’y it? A label. ‘Killer’. It means little to you and you understand even less.”

“You said it yourself,” replied Mercutio. “A man who knows his tools and indeed how to use his tool.”

Tybalt’s lip curled in a sneer. “You mock me.”

“Nay, Tybalt, but you are a swordsman, an artist - one who knows his sword and how to handle it, unlike some who would be pricked by their own blade,” replied Mercutio.

“Beware lest you find yourself pricked by mine,” Tybalt replied.

“Ah, your wit is almost as sharp as your sword, Tybalt!”

“Whereas wit is all you have to boast, Mercutio.”

“It is true I have more wit than my prick, and yet enough to prick thee with it, therefore which is the sharper - the wit or the prick?” Mercutio grinned.

Tybalt glared at Mercutio, which didn’t deter him one bit. “Must this always come down once more to your prick?” he exclaimed.

“Say not down, but up,” suggested Mercutio with a wink. Tybalt threw his hands up in exasperation.

“You are impossible!” he fumed.

“And you love me for it,” taunted Mercutio.

“Don’t say that!” snarled Tybalt.

“Why, by unsaying it can I make it untrue? Maybe then my right hand _is_ the better partner; it talks less and protests not at all but handles whatever tool I choose.”

“And you talk too much yet somehow manage to say nothing at all of substance,” retorted Tybalt, though without heat. Mercutio stepped closer to him and was gratified to see Tybalt stand his ground - was that the ghost of a wry smile playing about his lips? He couldn’t restrain another grin.

“Then perhaps you should silence me with substance and prove just which of us can wield their sword the better, Tybalt. Put up or shut up.”

Tybalt’s hand snaked for his hip then he glanced down as his hand grasped at empty air. Mercutio couldn’t resist the laugh that burst from him.

“You’re as soon moved as to be moody, and as soon moody as to be moved,” he chuckled. “Come. Are you truly angry with me? Honestly?”

Tybalt let his hand fall. “In honesty? No.” He smiled reluctantly. “You are a rogue and a knave, Mercutio.”

“And you lo-”

He found himself silenced as Tybalt laid a forefinger upon his lips. “Peace.”

Mercutio kissed the finger, then drew closer still. Tybalt watched him with eyes that still held a hint of wariness. Mercutio kissed the finger again, then bent his head and leaned in. Tybalt stared at him for a moment then closed his eyes and tilted his head to allow the kiss.

Careful of Tybalt’s injured shoulder and ribs, Mercutio slipped an arm around his waist, the other hand lifting to cradle the back of Tybalt’s head as he deepened the kiss. They parted only through the need to breathe.

“You were wrong,” said Tybalt breathlessly.

“Hmm? About what?” murmured Mercutio, his gaze fixed upon Tybalt’s lips.

“Your instincts,” breathed Tybalt. “I swear you will be the death of me.”

Mercutio felt a cold pang in his chest. He pulled Tybalt in for another kiss, and tried to drive away the memory of another who had said those words.

Tybalt left for the Capulet estate some three hours later, but the memory of the conversation stayed with Mercutio for long nights after.


	22. Chapter 22

“Oh come _on_ Tybalt - _please?_ ” Juliet regarded him hopefully with big eyes.

Tybalt sighed then stared down again at the mask in his hands. “Does it really have to be a cat?”

“But it’s just perfect for you!” she protested. “Please - for me?”

“I still don’t see why I should need to wear a mask at all,” he groused even as he donned the bejewelled Venetian cat mask. “There, happy now?” His voice was gruff but he was having to restrain a small smile. He never could resist Juliet’s requests; the way her eyes lit up with delight made the prospect of the teasing he would undoubtedly get from Mercutio just that little bit more tolerable. “I will _not_ wear a furry tail though,” he warned her.

“Oh, you fussy thing!” she scolded as she reached up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek just below the edge of the half-face mask. “It suits you; quite regal.”

“You take shameless advantage of me, Juliet,” murmured Tybalt, but he was finally smiling openly now. “What shall you be?”

“Come and see!” she urged him, taking hold of his hands and tugging him.

He sighed good-naturedly and allowed her to draw him into her sitting room. She dropped his hands. “Close your eyes,” she ordered him.

“Juliet,” he began but she wagged a finger at him sternly.

“Close them or you shan’t see!”

Obediently he closed his eyes. “Very well,” he huffed.

“No peeking, now!” she called over her shoulder as she darted off into her bedroom.

Tybalt folded his arms and waited patiently. He didn’t mind - not really; he complained out of habit, but in truth he never could deny Juliet anything.

Well, except to wear the fluffy black cat tail she had produced. He drew the line at that; he was quite sure Mercutio would twit him over this for months to come as it was, without giving him even more ammunition.

He’d felt a certain misgiving when the formal invitations had arrived for the Prince’s Hallowe’en ball; fancy dress was not his thing. The mask was his sole concession, and it had taken much persuasion on Juliet’s part to get him to agree to that much. He wished he had some reasonable excuse to forgo the whole affair; all the noble houses of Verona would be in attendance which invariably would mean the Montagues as well as the Capulets. His absence would have caused people to wonder and speculate however, and it would have been perceived as a slight to the Prince. And after all, Juliet had been looking forward to it and had promised him a dance - having assured him she would be very careful of his still-healing ribs. At least he’d been able to dispense with the sling a few days previously. And then there was his uncle; though Tybalt were still in favour at present, he felt it prudent to keep on the right side of his uncle.

And after all, Mercutio would be there. He supposed he could tolerate the presence of the Montague whelp and his cousin as long as Mercutio were there to distract him.

He heard a rustling of fabric. “You can look now!”

Tybalt opened his eyes to see Juliet in a beautiful white gown adorned with white fur trim and beads. A white fox mask completed the outfit. “What do you think?” She twirled on the spot then smiled up at him.

He crossed the small space between them and took her hands in his. “Beautiful as ever,” he smiled.

“You say the sweetest things, Tybalt!” she grinned. “Promise you’ll dance with me? Please? You know Father won’t let me dance with anyone else there.”

“Of course I will,” he nodded.

Juliet gave a little squeal of joy. She gave him another kiss on the cheek then let go of his hands as she snatched up her purse. “Come on, they’ll be waiting for us!”

Tybalt touched his fingertips to his cheek where she had kissed him, then followed.

***

Lady Capulet swept into the grand ballroom upon the arm of her husband; she dressed as Cleopatra, he as a pharaoh. Tybalt followed behind with Juliet upon his arm. He felt distinctly ill at ease even behind the cat mask; it did little to hide his identity, standing taller than nearly anyone else there as he did.

He felt keenly the lack of blade upon his hip, but the wearing of weapons within the Prince’s palace was expressly forbidden. It was small consolation that the Montagues would likewise be unarmed and under the watchful eyes of the Prince’s guards. The Prince’s investigation had revealed nothing of substance into who had been behind the ambush at the Capulet warehouse. That the private investigators in Lord Capulet’s employ had likewise failed to uncover the identities of his attackers did not help settle his nerves any.

Lord Capulet bowed to the Prince perfunctorily as Lady Capulet swept into a graceful curtsey, and then it was Tybalt and Juliet’s turn. He held his cousin’s hand as she curtseyed to the prince before inclining his head respectfully; as he straightened, he caught sight of Mercutio standing a little to the side and behind his uncle, an undeniable smirk upon his face beneath the red fox mask he wore. His bright blue eyes promised that Tybalt’s mask would not pass without comment this night. Tybalt drew a slow, even breath then turned to Juliet as he felt her squeeze his hand lightly. He gave her a small reassuring smile as he led her away to follow her parents.

The Montagues swept in a short time later, dressed in peacock hues and each wearing an elaborate bird mask. Lady Montague curtseyed to the Prince then presented her son Romeo in turn before her nephew Benvolio bounced forward and bowed with a flourish. Tybalt felt an irrational anger rising inside as Romeo and Benvolio then greeted Mercutio enthusiastically, but was distracted as the small orchestra struck up a lively dance and Juliet tugged at his arm.

“Come and dance with me Tybalt!” she pleaded, her eyes bright.

“Juliet, dear, remember Tybalt’s injury,” protested her mother. “I don’t think dancing would be advisable.”

“I’ll be careful, I promise - only _please_ , Tybalt? I so want to dance!”

“I did promise I would,” Tybalt shrugged apologetically to his aunt. “One dance will not hurt.” And if it did, he would say nothing.

He let Juliet lead him out onto the dance floor where other couples were taking up position, and then they began to dance. It was a lively number, and Tybalt had to concentrate on his footwork as he twirled Juliet about, her steps light and her smile infectious. As the steps of this particular dance came back to him he was able to look up more, and shortly he was smiling back at Juliet as they whirled about the dancefloor, Juliet pirouetting in his arms then gracefully parading around him before returning to his side as his hand settled upon her slender waist, taking her hand in his other hand as they skipped on to the next position.

He forgot temporarily the presence of others, oblivious even to the Montagues, all his attention focused on Juliet. His heart felt light, and content in a way he could rarely recall feeling as he danced with his beloved Juliet. Forgotten was any feeling of ill ease or the discomfort of his ribs; forgotten, too, Mercutio. He had eyes only for his beautiful cousin and her radiant smile. He didn’t think he had ever felt happier in his life.

The dance ended all too soon for them both; laughing breathlessly, they paused to listen to the opening bars of the next tune then both shook their heads and Tybalt led her from the dance floor. He gestured to a serving man who obediently paused as Tybalt took two glasses of wine from his tray then presented one to Juliet.

“Do you think I should?” she giggled. Tybalt glanced over to where her parents were distracted in discussion with some minor noble or other dressed as a gaily-coloured parrot.

“I think you can chance it; your father isn’t watching,” he reassured her.

“Prince of Cats! I hardly recognised you, Tybalt!”

Tybalt rolled his eyes then turned to face Mercutio, who was wearing an irrepressible grin, flanked by Benvolio and Romeo.

“How charming,” remarked Tybalt. “The fox and his hounds.” He inclined his glass towards the trio in a mocking toast.

Romeo’s face darkened beneath the bright plumage of his mask and he lunged forward only to be brought up short by Mercutio’s hand upon his arm.

“Now, now, remember - no violence under my uncle’s roof,” Mercutio reminded him, not taking his eyes off Tybalt. Benvolio moved to Romeo’s other side and tugged at his arm.

“Come on, Romeo, isn’t that Rosaline over there?” he urged him quietly.

“Yes, run and play with Rosaline, Romeo, and pray my uncle does not see you,” said Tybalt drily.

Romeo lurched towards him again but both Mercutio and Benvolio tugged him away. Tybalt watched them coolly then turned away.

“Tybalt, what was that about?” asked Juliet in a hushed whisper.

“Nothing, cousin,” replied Tybalt blithely. No matter what lay between himself and the Montagues, he was determined it would not touch Juliet. He gave her a small smile. “More wine?”

“I’d rather dance - that is, if you feel up to it?”

Tybalt smiled. “If you are,” he replied. They set aside their glasses then ran laughing back out onto the dance floor.

They danced three more dances before Tybalt was forced to reluctantly concede he could dance no more for the moment. Breathless, Juliet led him back to the side of the dance floor to rejoin her parents.

“Juliet, you’ve quite worn out Tybalt - let him rest!” Lord Capulet chided with a smile.

“Tybalt, are you in pain?” asked his wife as Tybalt helped himself to a glass of wine and downed it swiftly. He shook his head.

“It’s nothing,” he lied. He felt his ribs give another warning twinge. “Please excuse me,” he added as he gave a bow to Lady Capulet, Juliet and his uncle in turn before turning away.

A footman directed him towards the nearest restroom and he slipped inside, grateful to find himself alone for the moment. The noise and heat of the ball coupled with the growing discomfort from his ribs had been beginning to tell on his nerves, and now he was alone and away from Juliet he felt slightly dizzy, with the beginnings of a headache starting to make themselves felt across his forehead. He pulled off the mask and set it down beside the sink.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a strip of painkillers; he took two and swallowed them down dry before splashing cold water on his face. As he straightened up he caught sight of Mercutio in the mirror.

“I’m really not in the mood for more teasing,” he warned him. “Have you managed to lose your ragtag pair of dogs?”

Mercutio stepped closer, his face unreadable behind the fox mask. He said nothing.

Tybalt frowned. “What is this, another game, Mercutio? You know I dislike being made a fool of.” He bent to splash another handful of water on his face then jerked, startled, as he felt cold fingers brush his throat.

“God’s mercy, Mercutio, your hands are like ice!” he exclaimed as he straightened. “What are you doing?”

“Something that should have been done the first time you set foot here,” replied Mercutio quietly as his fingers abruptly tightened around Tybalt’s throat.

Tybalt wrested himself away from Mercutio’s grasp and spun to face him, alarmed. “What the devil has gotten into you? What game are you playing? This isn’t funny!”

Mercutio laughed, and reached for Tybalt’s throat again, his eyes cold and flat behind the fox mask. Tybalt knocked his hand aside then pushed past him towards the exit. Mercutio lunged for him, and Tybalt cried out as he felt a punch land squarely against his injured ribs. He clutched at his side as he stumbled then fell heavily to one knee.

“Why are you doing this? What the hell is wrong with you?” he gasped, his bewilderment swiftly giving way to anger. “I thought we-”

“What? Had something? _Cared_ for one another?” sneered Mercutio. “How easily you fell for a lie!”

“What?” Tybalt felt as though his heart had stopped beating as he stiffened with the shock. “No....”

“All a game,” whispered Mercutio in his ear as Tybalt knelt there, stunned by the betrayal.

Tybalt shook his head. “Not even a Montague would be capable of such cruelty,” he breathed. “Why?”

“Why not?” laughed Mercutio.

Tybalt braced one hand on the floor to push himself up; at that moment he felt something cold and thin brush his throat as he glanced up, and then suddenly it tightened until he couldn’t breathe. His fingers scrabbled at his throat, unable to get a purchase as the garrott bit into his skin. He struggled, kicking out as he lunged forward but the wire only bit more deeply. He thrashed wildly, but Mercutio seemed possessed of an almost inhuman strength as Tybalt struggled in vain. Black stars burst across his vision as he felt his legs give way, his chest burning with the desperate need to breathe.

And Mercutio laughed.

***

“Where have you been?” Romeo slapped Mercutio on the back. “We thought you’d deserted us!”

“When nature calls a man needs must answer it, Romeo,” Mercutio protested.

“Ah, and there I’d thought you’d stolen away with some wench!” laughed Benvolio, pushing a glass of wine into his hand. “Where’s your mask?”

“Should we be jealous?” teased Romeo. Mercutio snorted.

“Only of my right hand; why, feel you pricked by the lack?” he teased with a grin before turning to Benvolio. “I’ve no idea where the mask went; I lost it sometime in the third or fourth dance - it’s out there somewhere, no doubt.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the dance floor then slung an arm around Romeo’s shoulders. “So, tell me - how goes it with Rosaline?” he teased.

“She blows hot and cold,” Romeo sighed. “First I think she might like me, then she acts indifferent, then it seems she’ll drown me in kisses before freezing me out.”

“I think that’s called being a woman,” remarked Benvolio then yelped as Mercutio swatted him with the back of his other hand.

“You hang out with the wrong women, Benvolio; I keep telling you to set your sights higher!”

“And where have you set your sights, Mercutio?” asked Romeo with a grin. Mercutio chuckled.

“No woman claims my heart, my friends; Mercutio is a free man and frankly prefers it that way.” He clapped Romeo on the back and grinned at Benvolio. “Come, the night is young and I’m for dancing!”

“You’re not the only one who’s lost their mask,” remarked Benvolio. “Looks like Tybalt’s had too much dancing - or maybe it’s wine!” Mercutio glanced at him then followed his line of sight to the double doors on the far side of the ballroom.

Tybalt did indeed look the worse for wear; he had staggered through the doors unsteadily and was leaning against the door frame, one hand clutching at his throat, his head drooping. As they watched, he took two unsteady footsteps then collapsed to the floor.

Without thinking, Mercutio took a step towards him until Romeo elbowed him in the ribs. “Leave him be to embarrass himself; let’s dance!”

A small crowd had gathered around Tybalt where he lay sprawled upon the floor. Mercutio felt a misgiving as he watched Lady Capulet push past the onlookers to drop to her knees next to her nephew. Something didn’t feel right.

“Trust a Capulet to make a scene,” groused Benvolio. “What do you want to bet he blames this on the Montagues too?”

“Hush,” frowned Mercutio. “Here comes my uncle. Wait here whilst I find out what’s going on.”

“I’d keep out of it if I were you,” argued Benvolio, setting a hand on Mercutio’s shoulder to forestall him. “Tybalt’s rarely in a good mood at the best of times. Best we keep well away.”

The Prince had called some of his men over; as the three friends watched, Prince Escalus directed the small crowd of onlookers away as three of the guards lifted Tybalt between them and carried him from the room, Lord and Lady Capulet following as Juliet followed behind. Even from across the room Mercutio could see they all looked worried.

“Careful, Mercutio, or someone might get the idea you actually give a damn about him!” said Romeo decisively as he clapped Mercutio on the back. “Come on, forget old gloomy-pants; we’re here to have fun!”

Mercutio flashed his friends a grin that he didn’t feel and let himself be dragged off to dance, his heart full of misgivings. Something was very, very wrong indeed.

 

***

 

It was late by the time Mercutio finally made it to his rooms; the sky in the east held a faint glimmer of the promise of dawn. He was tired and more than a little drunk, his footsteps stumbling and uncertain. He peeled his shirt off slowly as he made his way across the lounge, throwing it haphazardly in the direction of the cream leather sofa; his shoes he kicked off as he entered his bedroom, discarded vaguely in the direction of the wardrobe. He dropped heavily into the chair before the dressing table and exhaled slowly before he began to tug off his rings, dropping them carelessly amongst the detritus on the table.

He glanced up at the figure in the fox mask reflected in the mirror. “Oh, so that’s where it went,” he mused. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

The figure remained silent, merely watching him impassively from behind the mask.

“Oh well, suit yourself. I hope you weren’t running around frightening the guests.”

He thought he saw the ghost of a smile playing about Valentine’s lips as he leaned forward to rest his arms on the back of Mercutio’s chair. Something dangled from his right hand.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” Mercutio asked, mildly curious, then started as the object dropped into his lap. He picked it up and turned it over.

It was a Venetian cat mask, decked with dark red jewels, enamelled in black and charcoal grey with accents of gold filigree. “Where did you get this?” he breathed.

“Call it a souvenir,” said Valentine softly as he pulled the fox mask off.

“A souvenir of what?” Staring at the mask, a horrible suspicion came over Mercutio. “Valentine... what have you done?” he breathed.

“I was protecting you,” Valentine said as he rested his chin upon his hands. “He would only have hurt you. It’s better this way.”

Mercutio lifted his eyes to the reflection. “It was you,” he guessed. “What did you do to him? Valentine, _what did you do?_ ”

“Oh don’t worry, he’ll live,” said Valentine airily as he tilted his head to one side. “Not that that should matter. He’s out of your life now, don’t you see? It’s for the best.” Valentine grinned. “You’re a free man, remember? That’s what you told Romeo.” He lifted a hand to inspect his nails. “I like Romeo. He was always kind to me.”

“He never knew you,” breathed Mercutio. “Not the way I know you.”

“Or I know you,” answered Valentine softly. “No-one will ever understand you the way I do, Mercutio. Don’t you see? I _had_ to do it. He would have hurt you.”

“Don’t you think the choice was mine to make?” cried Mercutio.

Valentine merely smiled at him sadly. “We both know what happens when you let your heart rule your head, Mercutio. People get hurt, remember?”

“Valentine....”

“Hush, hush. It’s OK. Everything will be alright,” Valentine said gently, reaching a hand down to gently stroke Mercutio’s hair. He brushed a stray strand of hair out of Mercutio’s eyes.

“Your hands are like ice,” Mercutio murmured.

“And you are so warm, brother mine,” whispered Valentine. “Fire and ice. You love not wisely but too well; your heart burns too brightly with passion to see clearly. Let yourself be guided by the ice-cold clarity of another who has only your best interests at heart.” He stroked Mercutio’s face gently, and Mercutio shivered.

“His hands were never so cold as yours,” he murmured.

“You drank too much wine; you are tired,” whispered Valentine. “Sleep, and do not dream.”

Mercutio felt drowsy; his limbs too heavy to lift. Even his eyes felt heavy and tired, and he realised his head was drooping. He tried to speak, but it all seemed too much effort. As dawn painted rose and gold across the sky, he sank into a deep sleep.

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

As winter drew in and the days became darker, so did Tybalt's demeanour. Ever taciturn at the best of times, he became almost silent, withdrawing more and more into himself as his mien became colder. Only to Juliet did he show any signs of the old Tybalt, but increasingly even she found it hard to draw him out of the dark feyness that seemed to grip him as surely as the winter ice held the city.

Of the attack upon him, he could tell them nothing – at first because he was unable to speak, and then later as his voice slowly returned he remained silent because it had simply become habit. Coming so close to death had shaken his composure, and the servants whispered among themselves that though he lived, something had died inside the young man. Tybalt was aware of their quiet gossip but outwardly showed no signs of acknowledging it; certainly he said nothing of it to Peter, his valet, but then he spoke but little to anyone. On rare occasions when he did speak, it was but a few words, his voice harsher than it had been before.

He took to wearing a thin black silk scarf wound around his throat to hide the scar left by the garrotte.

He kept to himself, immersing himself in his books or simply sitting staring out at the snow-blanketed gardens for hours in a fugue state, his thoughts as bleak as the dead roses that still clung here and there to the bare branches of the thorned branches in his aunt's rose garden. He didn't miss their scent.

The only times he showed signs of any emotion were when the name Montague were mentioned, when a violent rage would possess him – sometimes to the point of inducing a seizure. People rapidly learned not to speak the hated name in his presence. Of Mercutio he spoke not at all; once or twice Juliet mentioned at the dining table that she had seen him in the marketplace, but Tybalt had acted as though she had not spoken. He was keenly aware of his aunt watching him intently as he toyed with the food upon his plate. He who had had little appetite at the best of times now had none at all; food tasted like ashes in his mouth, and he ate from pure physical need and not for enjoyment.

He was aware that Mercutio had called at the house a number of times; each time, the Lady Capulet had told him Tybalt was out, or indisposed, or busy. Tybalt would stand, unseen, in the shadows of the stairs and listen as Mercutio begged her to at least give him some message or other, pressing letters upon Tybalt's aunt that he knew she burned in the fire after Mercutio had gone. He felt no curiosity over their content, and Lady Capulet never mentioned them. If she knew he lingered to listen in the shadows, she gave no sign of it.

Christmas came and went, the year turned and a new began. The usual parties were held; though Tybalt attended without complaint, it was also without pleasure. He kept himself aloof from the festivities, never stirring from his place upon the dais but remaining dutifully beside his aunt. Even Juliet could not entice him to dance.

Mercutio attended the Christmas ball, though he had not been invited; though he endeavoured to catch Tybalt's eye, the tall Capulet seemed not to see him at all, staring through him as though he were a particularly troublesome ghost he preferred not to acknowledge. He did not stir from his place, and with Lady Capulet staring at him in malicious triumph, one hand laid possessively upon Tybalt's shoulder, Mercutio dared not approach him.

Tybalt had felt his phone vibrate later that evening, but chose to ignore it. Later in his room he noted that it was a text from Mercutio. He deleted it unread.

Some days later Mercutio tried to send Tybalt another text. It bounced, with the message that his text was undeliverable. His emails seemed to disappear into a black hole.

Tybalt did not bother looking in the deleted folder.

The snow melted; but though the days slowly grew warmer and longer, Tybalt's heart remained cold. He watched spring slowly unfurl its colours and new life blossomed within the garden but he took no pleasure in the sight.

It was a morning late in April when Lady Capulet came to him as he sat before the window, watching the birds in the garden. She sat beside him and talked to him for over an hour. Though the other servants questioned Peter long about it afterwards, he could not tell them anything of what she had said to her silent nephew, but at the end Tybalt had nodded once then arose from his seat and followed her out into the garden where they walked and talked quietly. Whatever it was they spoke of, Tybalt kept to himself; but he began to be seen more often outside the dark confines of his room and his voice was heard more often around the house.

On Juliet's sixteenth birthday, he gave her a gift of a small silver bracelet set with amethysts in the form of violets; delighted, she had given him a kiss, and Tybalt gave her the first real, genuine smile anyone had seen since Hallowe'en. The servants discussed this amongst themselves and held out hope that whatever malady of the spirit that had gripped him since that fateful night was perhaps beginning to lose its grip upon him. Though he did not dance at the ball given in Juliet’s honour that evening, he seemed a little more at ease, inclining his head as his aunt murmured an aside to him and seeming to take more of an interest in the proceedings.

Mercutio, of course, was not invited. He attended anyway. Tybalt stared through him as though he were not there.

May was hot that year, and June promised a long hot summer to rival that of the previous year. As the days grew longer, tempers grew shorter. Fights broke out all over the city, and most were between the servants of the Montagues and Capulets – and increasingly Tybalt was to be found at the forefront. If there was an occasion to take offence then he took it, and more besides. No insult was allowed to go unanswered, with fists or with blade. Blood was shed on both sides.

It came to a head one hot, sultry day about a week before the solstice. Once again a fight had broken out between a group of Capulets in the market who were waylaid by servants of the Montagues. Tybalt was passing by on his return to his uncle's estate after completing an errand when he came upon the fracas. He sized up the situation for a moment then spied Benvolio, who seemed to be attempting to regain some semblance of order amongst his aunt's servants, with little success.

Benvolio spotted Tybalt as he ran to join his uncle's men and called out to him. Tybalt, hearing his name called, turned and glared at him.

“Benvolio, you dog! Hiding behind your men – how very noble of you!” he snarled. “Afraid to face a real man?”

“I'm trying to stop this, not exacerbate it further!” Benvolio exclaimed as he pushed his way through the ranks of the Montague servants to stand between the two opposing forces, his hands held up. “Call off your men; they'll heed you – between us we can stop this bloodshed and have peace for once!”

“Peace? You speak to me of peace, you Montague dog?” Tybalt sneered as he laid his hand on his knife. “I hate the word, as I hate you and all the rest of your damned family!” He lunged towards Benvolio, who was forced to back up as the two sides surged together in a wild melee.

Shortly the town square was emptied of all save the two warring sides, and in the thick of it Tybalt, who strove to reach Benvolio with a murderous look upon his face. 

Word of the fight had spread, and more entered the fray on both sides. From the corner of his eye Tybalt spotted Mercutio sprint into the square then halt to assess the situation before him before wading into the fight and making his way to Benvolio's side.

Benvolio forgotten, Tybalt began to push his way through the heaving throng, his gaze intent upon Mercutio. He was distracted as a Montague pushed past him, his fist snarled in the hair of a girl he recognised as being a Capulet follower. Tybalt's fist struck out and caught the man square on the jaw; he reeled and stumbled to one knee as he let go of the girl's hair. Tybalt drew her behind him with a glance to see she was alright; she nodded her thanks and he pushed her in the direction of a gap in the melee. Without looking to see if she fled or not he moved forward to duck under the wildly-flailing arm of another Capulet wrestling with a man in Montague colours; Tybalt swept the man's feet out from under him and pushed on, each step bringing him closer to Mercutio who was oblivious to his presence.

Two girls stumbled into Tybalt’s path, screaming abuse at each other and tearing at hair and faces with bloody finger nails; without glancing at either, Tybalt forced his way between them, sending them flying in opposite directions as he thrust them apart. Ahead, he saw Mercutio shimmy halfway up a lamp post to look around before shouting something that was lost in the roar. He glanced down then dropped back into the fray, and Tybalt pursued.

A man swung his fist at Tybalt’s face; without breaking step Tybalt ducked beneath the blow and delivered a punch to the man’s solar plexus, his face impassive as he knocked the man’s feet out from beneath him with a scything sweep of his leg before dropping an elbow strike onto his chest. He felt something give beneath him as the man screamed, but Tybalt was already up and moving on with grim determination.

Mercutio put two fingers to his mouth and whistled hard then leapt into crowd, ducking a punch and throwing one of his own as he fought his way to Benvolio's side. Tybalt leapt towards them.

Benvolio saw him first and elbowed Mercutio, shouting something that Tybalt couldn't hear. He ignored him; he had eyes only for Mercutio who turned then stared at Tybalt, his eyes wide.

“Tybalt! In God's name, man, where have you -” he began but got no further as Tybalt launched himself at him, his face a blank mask and his eyes ice-cold as he reached for his knife.

“Montagues! Capulets!” roared a voice above the melee, and the shrill sounds of guards' whistles punctuated the shouting and screaming.

“The Prince!” “The Prince is here!” “Shit, get back, the guard!” Hurried warnings flew through the crowd as the combatants disengaged and drew back like a ragtag sea parting before the wrath of Prince Escalus.

Tybalt had his hand upon Mercutio's throat but he paused then drew back, sparing one last glance at him before withdrawing to his own side, signalling to his uncle's men to back down as Mercutio and Benvolio did likewise.

“Enough!” roared the Prince as he advanced to stand between the two crowds. He glared at the assembled Montagues who bowed before him before he turned his stare upon the Capulets, who did likewise.

“I am out of patience,” growled Escalus in the silence that had descended. “No more pardons. No longer will I tolerate your warring and fighting. You have turned Verona into a battleground for the last time! Tybalt!”

Tybalt's head jerked up as he heard his name. He could feel Mercutio's eyes upon him as he stepped forward, but he ignored him as he swept into a low, respectful bow to the city's ruler. Escalus turned to the Montagues.

“Benvolio!”

Lady Montague's nephew stepped forward and bowed contritely, saying nothing as he darted a brief glance at Tybalt. Tybalt ignored him, fixing his gaze impassively upon the Prince.

“And you, Mercutio.”

Mercutio's head snapped up. “Me, uncle? But -”

“Silence!” roared Escalus. Mercutio flinched then stepped forward to stand next to Benvolio.

“You have disturbed the peace of Verona for the last time,” spat Escalus as he eyed the trio balefully. “You will learn to respect and accept each other.”

Benvolio opened his mouth as though to speak but was silenced by the Prince's glare. Swallowing hard, he turned towards Tybalt, who turned upon his heel to face him then took a step towards him, glaring balefully down at the shorter Montague. Mercutio stepped up next to Benvolio, smirking at Tybalt who merely stared at him, his face impassive though his green eyes were venomous. Mercutio merely grinned wider.

“You find this funny, Mercutio? Perhaps this will wipe the smile from your face,” growled Escalus, his voice low and threatening before he turned his gaze upon the crowd once more. “Hear me, citizens of Verona! Your war ends now! Whoever disturbs the peace again will be put to death!”

Mercutio's head whipped round as he stared at his uncle in surprise. “Uncle -”

“Silence!” roared the Prince. “My word is law and you will respect it! Even you, Mercutio; I may love you as a son but so God help me, if you raise a hand to another once more then you will hang! Do you hear me? Tybalt, Benvolio, understand me – if you seek to continue this feud then your lives are forfeit!”

Benvolio swallowed hard and nodded as Tybalt turned to stare at the Prince, his jaw clenched before he pressed his hand over his heart and bowed low.

“Enough! Begone!”

The crowd began to melt away, Montagues and Capulets retreating in twos and threes until only Tybalt, Mercutio, Benvolio, the Prince and his men were left standing in the centre of the town square. Tybalt stared at the Prince, ignoring Mercutio who stared at him, his earlier bewilderment replaced by a grim look, his fists clenched.

“Mercutio, with me. Benvolio, Tybalt – return to your families' estates and be sure that all understand my edict. No-one will be spared my justice if this vendetta does not end here and now.”

Tybalt finally turned and fixed Mercutio with a flat stare of naked hatred before turning upon his heel and stalking from the square, his long black leather coat flapping around his ankles as he walked.

He could feel Mercutio's eyes upon him with every step; his back itched directly between his shoulder blades as though Mercutio's gaze were burning him, but he fought the temptation to look over his shoulder. He left the square without a backwards glance.

This war was not over.


	24. Chapter 24

Mercutio followed his uncle into the dining hall, his face for once serious.

“Uncle, what you said back there - you wouldn’t truly hang _me_ , would you?” He chanced a roguish smile. “Hanging’s such a barbaric way to die, wouldn’t you agree?”

Prince Escalus shrugged out of his coat of office and turned to face his nephew with a grim smile. “Would you prefer a bullet?”

“It would certainly be cleaner,” quipped Mercutio, relaxing a little as he folded his arms and leaned against the back of a chair. Escalus smiled as he lifted an arm to settle it about his nephew’s shoulders and gave the tall lanky youth a squeeze. 

“Mercutio, for you there will be no hanging, I promise,” he smiled, as Mercutio grinned back. Escalus suddenly gripped the back of Mercutio’s neck hard, still grinning as Mercutio winced. “I will put the bullet in your brain myself if by your hand the peace in this city is destroyed.”

Mercutio stared at his uncle, then gave an uncomfortable chuckle. His uncle began to laugh, and Mercutio joined in, not entirely at ease. Escalus finally released him and pushed him away.

“Go, I have work to do. I shall see you at dinner.”

As Mercutio turned to go, Escalus called him back. “No, wait. This arrived for you earlier.”

Mercutio turned and stared at the envelope bearing the Capulet crest in his uncle’s hand. He reluctantly took it then slit it open; a minute later he began to laugh. His uncle raised an eyebrow in mute query.

“Oh this is too rich - I’ve been invited to the Capulets’ midsummer ball! A personal invitation in Lady Capulet’s own fair hand, no less. I’ll wager Tybalt knows nothing of this.”

“There’s one for Valentine as well.”

The laughter died in Mercutio’s throat. “What the hell is she playing at?” he said quietly.

“That is precisely what I wish you to find out,” replied Escalus as he handed Mercutio the second invitation. “I have had my eye on her for some time. I have my suspicions as to what she may be about, but I lack proof.”

“You think she was behind the assassin’s attempt on me under her own roof?”

“Perhaps. More to the point, I _know_ she was behind the ambush on Tybalt. I simply don’t have the evidence required to have her arrested for it.”

“But Tybalt’s her own nephew,” said Mercutio quietly. “The only son of her late brother. Why would she try to kill him?”

“I think she knew full well he could handle those men,” replied Escalus grimly. “And do so effectively enough to leave us with no living witnesses to question.”

“But why?”

“To implicate the Montagues? To somehow bind him closer to her? I don’t know. She’s up to something, and I need to find out what.” Escalus patted Mercutio on the shoulder. “She has invited you personally. I need you to take advantage of that. See what it is that she does not wish me to see.” He sighed heavily. “I wish you had not thrown your lot in so thoroughly with the Montagues. You have placed me in a difficult position; we must make the best of what we have. You will attend the ball.”

“And Tybalt?” asked Mercutio dubiously.

“He will not risk moving against you so soon after my edict,” replied Escalus as he turned away. “You have a week; try not to get yourself or your hotheaded friends into more trouble than you can help before then. I should hate to have to kill you.” He gave Mercutio a grin.

Mercutio hastily sketched a bow then retreated from the room. He headed straight for his own quarters; his shirt was stained with someone else's blood and dust from the fight and one sleeve was slightly torn. He swiftly peeled off the shirt, tossing it in the rough direction of the laundry basket without bothering to see where it fell as he made his way into his bedroom to find another.

“He wouldn't really kill you. Would he?”

Mercutio didn't look round, instead concentrating on tugging on the clean shirt and buttoning it up. “I _think_ he was joking,” he said, though he wasn't entirely certain of that himself.

“With any luck Tybalt will be goaded into lashing out and -”

Mercutio slammed the wardrobe door shut in a surge of anger, then leaned against it. He drew a deep breath as he regained his composure. “Don't say that,” he said, quieter.

“But why? He hates you.”

Mercutio pressed his forehead against the cool wooden door. “Because I don't hate him. Not enough to want him dead.”

“You do realise he'd watch you hang?” Valentine's voice was relentless.

“Only because of what you did to him. Which he blames _me_ for.”

Mercutio turned around and was unsurprised to find he was alone once more. He picked up his red leather jacket and headed towards the other room. As he reached for the door handle to head out again, Valentine called him from behind.

“You'll warn Romeo? He doesn't know about uncle's edict.” His voice sounded concerned, almost anxious.

“Of course,” replied Mercutio. “Where did you think I was going?”

“Mercutio.” 

Mercutio paused, staring at his hand on the door handle.

“Be careful out there. I worry for you.”

Mercutio nodded. “I'll be back for dinner.”

***

Benvolio had found Romeo first; Mercutio found them both on the Ponte Pietra, leaning on the wall and staring down into the Adige below. They were quietly talking, but both glanced up as Mercutio made his way across the bridge to join them. He eyed their doleful expressions.

“I see Benvolio has told you the wonderful news about the edict my dear uncle has placed on us all then,” he remarked as he sauntered over to them.

“It's worse than that,” said Benvolio gloomily.

“Oh dear god. Romeo's in love _again_?”

“Out,” said Romeo to his boots.

“Of love? Oh no, don't tell me; Rosaline?” Mercutio rolled his eyes as Romeo sighed.

“He's got it bad,” said Benvolio sympathetically.

“No, it's worse; we have to suffer too,” said Mercutio as he hopped up to sit on the parapet of the bridge, kicking his heels against the ancient Roman stonework.  
“You're laughing at me,” said Romeo sullenly.

“No, no, we weep with you cousin!” said Benvolio hastily as Mercutio rolled his eyes again and groaned. Benvolio elbowed him as he gave Mercutio a meaningful look. Mercutio shrugged then clapped Romeo on the shoulder.

“What you need is a distraction, Romeo!” he said as he jumped down from the wall.

“What kind of distraction?” asked Benvolio, looking interested. Mercutio's “distractions” could never be considered boring, and from the smirk playing around Mercutio's lips this promised to be a good one.

“A party.”

“A party?” said Romeo dubiously, then shook his head. “No, I don't think -”

“Old man Capulet is throwing a party and we're going,” said Mercutio over Romeo's half-formed objections.

“And we're invited?” asked Benvolio with an incredulous grin.

“I am,” replied Mercutio as he smacked Benvolio in the chest with his invitation.

“And what about us?” Benvolio looked at Mercutio expectantly.

“You have to come too, I'm not going in there alone!” Mercutio grinned.

“After the way Tybalt tried to wish you good morning earlier, that's wise! Think he knows about your invite?” Benvolio grinned.

“I doubt it, and he shan't know; it's a costume party, so no-one will be the wiser,” answered Mercutio with a grin. As Romeo continued to look dubious, Mercutio slung his arm around his friend's shoulders and leaned in close in conspiratorial fashion. “Romeo, it's a Capulet party. Who is going to be there?”

“Capulets, of course,” groused Romeo.

“And...?” Mercutio waited.

“And... Rosaline?” guessed Romeo, a hopeful note creeping into his voice. Mercutio gave him another grin and tapped his chest with the invitation.

“Good man! So you'll come?”

“Wild horses couldn't keep us away!” Benvolio assured him as Romeo nodded enthusiastically.

“Glad to hear it!” replied Mercutio as he straightened.

“There'll be trouble if your uncle finds out,” warned Romeo.

“There'll be more if _Tybalt_ finds out,” sniggered Benvolio.

“There'll be none at all if a certain pair of Montagues keep their mouths shut,” replied Mercutio, eyeing them each in turn; Benvolio mimed pulling a zip across his mouth whilst Romeo put on his best innocent look. 

Mercutio sniffed suspiciously. “Is that butter vapourising?” he asked.

“Why you -” exclaimed Romeo. Mercutio laughed and jumped away; Romeo and Benvolio pelted after him as his long legs bore him swiftly back towards the end of the bridge, all three laughing.


	25. Chapter 25

The garden was full of the heady scent of roses. Bees lazily buzzed from one bloom to another, laden with pollen, as butterflies flitted around, their colours almost rivalling that of the flowers in the garden. The air was heavy and humid, the late afternoon light a tawny hue that threw dreamlike shadows. Not a breath of wind stirred; it felt like the world were hushed and waiting.

Beneath the willow, the air was cooler; damselflies hovered over the still waters of the pool. It was peaceful there; a perfect place for Tybalt to retreat to on those occasions when even his own room was not sanctuary enough.

Tybalt had felt restless, though he could not have said why; for once, he had no duties and his time for a few hours was his own. His room had seemed too close and claustrophobic, and there had been a steady stream of visitors to the house all day in preparation for the ball that evening. He had retreated to the willow tree with a book, but his mind would not settle on the words on the page. Juliet had often teased him for preferring printed books to digital ones, but he found comfort in the feel of the pages as they turned beneath his long fingers, and the scent of old paper.

He found little comfort or distraction in the book on this afternoon however, and after finding his eyes scanning over the same sentence for perhaps the fourth or fifth time, he finally gave up. Slipping a thin silk ribbon between the pages, he closed the book and laid it aside. He leaned back against the trunk of the willow, his long legs stretched out in front of him, and laced his fingers together upon his breast as he stared up into the branches of the tree.

It had been months since last he had sought refuge beneath the willow. He was a little disquieted to recall that the last occasion had been the night the assassin attacked Mercutio. He had little memory of what had happened that night – vague remembrances of reaching the sunken garden, then dim flashes after that.

He dipped one hand in the cool water, letting his fingers trail ripples across the surface. His hand looked pale and ghostly through the green water; he stared at it, fascinated by the way the light through the water played over his skin. Rolling over onto his stomach, he stretched his other hand out into the water, splaying out his fingers, and idly wondered what it would look like to gaze up at the willow branches through the green water.

He was disturbed from his reverie by the sound of voices approaching. He came back to himself with a start, pulling his hands from the water and twisting around to peer over his shoulder in the direction of the noise. One hand stole towards the knife that was ever present upon his belt these days; his fingers curled firmly around the hilt and drew it from the scabbard noiselessly.

He relaxed only fractionally as he recognised his aunt's voice. She was deep in discussion with someone whose voice he didn't recognise – a man, but not one of her usual parade of suitors and paramours. They were slowly approaching the sunken garden; he could see them through the trailing branches of the willow, though they had not yet seen him – dressed in black as was his custom, he blended into the shadows whilst they had the late afternoon sun in their eyes. From their demeanour he realised they did not wish to be overheard and were wary of being seen. Tybalt realised there was no way he could slip away without being spotted, and as they drew closer he rose to his feet and withdrew around the other side of the tree.

He hoped briefly that perhaps they would pass by, but that hope died as they descended the steps into the sunken garden. There was nothing for it. Sheathing his blade, he leapt lightly up, grasping a low branch and pulling himself up into the tree, climbing until he reached the fork of the trunk. He curled himself in as much as he could, his long limbs not best suited to confined spaces, and held still as his aunt and her guest came to stand directly beneath him.

“Are you sure we will not be overheard here?” asked the man quietly.

“My dear Paris, no-one ever comes here except my nephew Tybalt. We are quite alone here.”

_Paris. The Prince's cousin?_ Tybalt uncurled himself a little, leaning forward to catch the conversation. What was he doing here – and why the clandestine nature of their meeting?

“I was quite impressed by the reports of how he dealt with that, ah, little ambush,” mused Paris. “I shouldn't like to get on the wrong side of him.”

“Tybalt does as I say,” Lady Capulet said sharply.

“Got him wrapped around your little finger have you?” chuckled Paris. “Him and half the men in your house I dare say.”

Tybalt's lip curled in a sneer.

“Anyway, we're not here to talk about him. Have you considered my offer?”

“I have. I need to consider it further. Juliet is only 16, after all.”

Tybalt felt his breath hitch in his chest. He shifted slightly, all senses alert now.

“You were married at her age, as I understand it.”

“I was far more worldly at her age,” said Lady Capulet. “Juliet is still an innocent, and her father would have her remain as such. He dotes on her.”

“She cannot remain a child forever,” said Paris dismissively. “And it's not as though I need her dowry after all. She remains the price of my co-operation.”

Tybalt clenched his hand hard around the locket that, as ever, hung around his neck. The thought of losing Juliet in marriage to another man was in itself intolerable, but to _Paris_? A man old enough to be her father?

He couldn't breathe. It felt like a tight band of steel had suddenly clenched around his chest; he felt sick to his stomach, a faint roaring in his ears. He clung to the branch with one hand, head bowed, trying to regain his composure and remain unseen. He almost missed Paris' next words, but his head jerked up as Lady Capulet answered.

“Attend the ball tonight and meet her for yourself. Perhaps you may charm her sufficiently. Or if not, at least make a favourable impression upon her father.”

“And Tybalt?” asked Paris. “I have heard he is rather... protective of his young cousin. Do you think perhaps he and she...?”

She threw her head back and laughed. “You do not know Tybalt! He looks upon her as a sister, nothing more. He has grown up with her and seen her grow from a babe into a young woman. He will understand that this match would be the best possible thing for Juliet. No, you need not fear Tybalt. It is her father and Juliet herself you must persuade.”

She extended a hand to Paris. “Come, we shall go and take tea together.”

“Wait – what's this?”

Tybalt cursed his foolishness. He'd left the book lying there at the foot of the tree.

Paris had picked up the book and was flicking through it. “ _Les Miserables_? And in French, too.”

Lady Capulet glanced at the book. “Tybalt must have left it behind; most unlike him. I do hope he has not taken ill.”

“Ah, his falling sickness. Didn't he have a spell at the palace at the Hallowe'en ball? Caused quite the stir as I recall.”

“No, an assassination attempt. I have my suspicions as to who and why.”

“Oh?” Paris' voice held a note of interest.

“I think our dear Prince was trying to send me a message. If he thinks I can be frightened off, he is very much mistaken. Tybalt's little, ah, _demonstration_ should have driven that home. It would take more than one assassin with a garrotte to take down my Tybalt.” There was a note of fierce possessiveness in her voice. Tybalt felt conflicted; he ought to feel pride at her statement, but instead it left him disquietened.

“Ah. You have indeed succeeded well with him. Do you think he will play his part then?”

Lady Capulet sniffed. “Tybalt will be Tybalt. He is nothing if not predictable. Set a red flag at a bull and it will charge, will it not?” 

Tybalt felt a cold chill ran up his spine. A hand crept to his throat unconsciously, fingers brushing the silk scarf he habitually wore. _No. She couldn't have. She wouldn't. Not his aunt._

“Best be wary, my Lady; bulls have horns, as careless matadors find to their cost.” Paris' voice held a note of caution.

“I am never careless,” she sniffed. “Come, we cannot tarry long or my _dear_ husband will begin to wonder.”

Paris caught her hand as she turned to go then yanked her to him. She regarded him coolly then smiled, and inclined her head as he bent to claim her lips. He released her wrist to grasp her slender waist with one hand as the other drifted to her breast; she made an encouraging noise and he pulled her down to the ground directly beneath Tybalt.

Tybalt curled up in his hiding place, biting his hand to keep himself silent. As the sounds of lovemaking drifted up to him, he felt sick to his stomach. He tasted blood, and felt dizzy.

He had no idea how long he remained thus; after a while his legs began to cramp badly, but he held his silence. His aunt cried out, Paris grunting, and then there was silence. After a while he heard them rise, a rustle of his aunt's skirts as she composed herself, and then they departed towards the house. 

Tybalt stayed in the tree a while longer; when finally he moved, he nearly fell as his legs threatened to give way beneath him. He slipped as he swung himself down to the lowest branch and fell heavily to the ground, knocking the breath from his body. He didn't know how long he lay there, sprawled upon the ground, but eventually he drew his legs under himself and managed to stagger a few steps to the edge of the pool. He reached trembling hands towards the water and splashed his face as he strove to calm himself. It would not do to be seen in this state. He paused and stared at his right hand, at the bloodied tooth marks. It ached, but somehow the pain was not as bad as that in his heart and the sick feeling in his stomach; indeed, it seemed preferable. Physical pain he could deal with; this heartsickness was unfamiliar and unpleasant. After a moment he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wound it around his hand. It would draw attention no doubt but not as much as the bite marks would.

He rose to his feet and began to make his way unsteadily towards the house. He had not gotten far before his stomach heaved and he vomited into a nearby rose bush. The scent which had seemed so heady and sweet now seemed cloying and rotten, and he reeled away gasping. He staggered away and headed back towards the house.

He almost reached his room unseen, but as he laid his hand on the door of his room Juliet called to him. “Tybalt?”

He turned, putting his bloodied hand behind him, and Juliet gasped.

“Tybalt, what's wrong? You look ghastly!”

“Nothing,” he lied. “Perhaps too much sun. I will be fine after I lie down for a while.”

She hurried towards him and stared anxiously up at him. “Perhaps you should rest and forgo the ball,” she said hesitantly.

“No!” he said, a little too vehemently as he reached out to grasp her shoulders. “No,” he repeated, quieter. “I will be fine, Juliet, truly. I – I want to dance with you; it has been too long since we danced. Will you? Please?”

The worried look on her face was replaced by an incredulous, delighted smile and she caught hold of his hands. “Truly? You want to dance with me? Oh Tybalt, it has been so long since you asked me! You make me so happy, I thought you would never dance again!” She flung her arms around him and hugged him for joy; his arms went around her to hold her close and it felt so right, so natural, and he wished he could hold her forever. He buried his face in her hair and thought of her in Paris' arms, and he closed his eyes and fought down the rage that threatened to overwhelm him at the idea.

“Tybalt, your hand! What did you do to it?” exclaimed Juliet as she pulled away and caught his right hand.

“It's nothing; I caught it upon one of your mother's rose bushes. You know how savage her thorns are,” he said lightly. 

“Oh Tybalt, you should be more careful,” she chided him gently as she cradled his injured hand gently with both hands.

“Kiss it better?” he said with a faint smile. She giggled then lightly kissed his hand; he caught his breath. Never had he loved her so much as at that moment; the thought that she might be taken from him forever was unbearable.

“Go and rest; I shall wake you in good time before the ball,” she promised him.

He smiled and withdrew into his room. 

He fell heavily upon his bed and rolled over onto his back. His mind was a-whirl, his head dizzy from what he had seen, heard and felt that afternoon, but uppermost was the feel of Juliet's lips upon his hand, her arms around his waist, the smell of her hair. 

He drifted into a light doze, his injured hand curled protectively about the locket.


	26. Chapter 26

As promised, Juliet knocked at his door later then let herself in, bringing Tybalt coffee to help him wake up. She found him curled upon his side, the silver locket held loosely in his hand. He started when she lightly touched his shoulder, disoriented at first.

“You were fast asleep,” she smiled. “You must have been very tired!”

“I was dreaming,” he murmured as he sat up slowly, his mind still sleep-fogged. “What time is it?”

“A little after five. The ball doesn't start until eight, but I thought you'd like time to wake up properly and get changed,” she smiled as she sat on the edge of his bed and offered him the cup of coffee.

“You are an angel,” he smiled gratefully, taking the cup and inhaling the rich scent before sipping cautiously at the hot liquid. He glanced up then lowered the cup. “So this is the new dress?” he inquired.

“Yes, Nurse finished it only this morning,” she said with a smile as she got up and gave a twirl. It was sewn from a beautiful deep red shot silk – Capulet red, Tybalt thought to himself with approval. The sleeveless bodice fitted to her body perfectly, accentuating her slender waist, whilst the full-length gathered skirts belled out from her hips in a graceful fall of silk overlaid with crystal organza and chiffon scattered with tiny stones and beads that shimmered like fire as she moved. It was a dress for dancing in, the skirts swirling about her ankles as she turned.

“Well?” she asked, her voice breathless with anticipation. As Tybalt stared at it transfixed, her face fell a little. “You don't like it,” she said anxiously.

Tybalt finally found his voice. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he said gently and truthfully.

“Oh Tybalt, you say the most lovely things!” she exclaimed; he barely had time to set his cup down before she flung herself into his arms and peppered him with delighted kisses. He closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair. He did not think he could love her more than he did right now.

And he could never tell her.

She pulled away and smiled at him. “What shall you wear?” she asked.

“I don't know,” he said. “I haven't really thought about it.”

She leapt up and crossed to his wardrobe, flinging the doors open as she began to look through his shirts. “Everything is so gloomy and black!” she exclaimed.

“I _like_ black!” he protested.

“Oh my dear cousin, I can't deny it suits you with your hair and it does set off your green eyes, but surely tonight at least you should wear some colour?”

He got up and came to stand beside her by the wardrobe. Staring down at her, he pondered for a moment then reached into the wardrobe and pulled out a red silk scarf the same shade as her dress.

“Here,” he said. “For you tonight, I will wear one thing that is not black.”

She smiled at him then turned to rifle through his wardrobe.

“Juliet, do you propose to dress me? I do have a valet,” he reminded her with a faint smile.

“I was looking for the mask,” she said, still hunting through the shelves and drawers. “You remember? The cat one.”

“No. Not that one,” he heard himself say distantly. “Never that one again.”

Juliet paused and glanced around, then her hands flew to her mouth. “Forgive me, that was so thoughtless of me!” she murmured. She took a hesitant step towards him, her expression one of contriteness.

He was reminded of a time, long ago, when she was perhaps five, he barely ten, and she had asked him why he didn't have a mummy or daddy and he had blurted out that they both were dead. She had taken his hands as she did now, staring up at him with wide green eyes, and told him she was very sorry and he could share her parents if he liked. It didn't make the pain inside any the less, but the pain was not her fault – not then, and not now.

“You are forgiven,” he said softly. He bent forward and kissed her hands gently, then smiled sadly at her.

“Will you ever tell me what happened?” she whispered. “It is not good to hold onto such pain, Tybalt.”

He closed his eyes and held still as he felt his throat constrict painfully. “Not yet,” he managed. _Not ever,_ his heart whispered. He opened his eyes as he felt the mask slip into place once more. “I must shower and change. You should go; your Nurse will be looking for you.”

She nodded sadly and retreated to the door. She paused to look back; for a moment she looked as though she would speak but then she gave a little breathless sigh and was gone.

He slumped against the door of the wardrobe, feeling numb inside.

***

 

Tybalt stalked slowly into the ballroom. Clad in black and silver, the sole splash of colour the deep crimson scarf about his throat, he was aware he made a striking figure. The wide feathered collar of his silk coat stirred slightly as he walked, the coat swirling about his ankles as he walked. He kept one hand upon the hilt of his jewelled shortsword so it didn't hinder his footsteps as he strode forward to stand before the dais where his uncle and aunt stood, Juliet between them.

He heard hushed whispers around him from the other guests but paid them no mind. With one hand he swept his coat back clear of the sword and bowed low before straightening, tossing his hair back over his shoulders. At a gracious nod from Lady Capulet he made his way to the steps at the side of the dais and climbed up to stand a little behind Juliet.

More guests entered, bowing low before the Capulet family; lords and ladies, high-ranking dignitaries and business associates of Lord Capulet. Among them was a trio of young men in masks who seemed vaguely familiar, though Tybalt couldn't quite put his finger on where he had seen them before. The tallest of the three had a shock of red hair that peeked out around his bronze-hued mask; it reminded him vividly of Mercutio for a moment and he had to glance away briefly before his composure could slip.

Paris he recognised at once, despite his fine bejewelled mask; his cocksure strut was unmistakable. Tybalt was grateful for his own black-feathered mask that obscured his expression as he glared down at the older man, his green eyes glittering in the light of the torches and braziers Lady Capulet had insisted upon.

“Welcome, one and all!” called Lord Capulet. “Eat, drink, dance and be merry!” The guests bowed towards their hosts; Juliet and Tybalt bowed back in turn.

As the music began, Juliet grabbed her Nurse's hand and pulled her after her out onto the dance floor, the portly woman protesting she was too old for dancing at her age. Tybalt watched her go and was about to follow until Lady Capulet caught his hand.

“Tybalt, be a dear and help me put my mask on,” she asked him with a dazzling smile. Tybalt could only bow in acquiescence then step forward to help her with her elaborate black and white mask that matched the black and white silk gown she wore this evening. Once it was arranged to her satisfaction, he stepped back and turned to look for Juliet. She was being whirled around the dance floor by Paris, and he felt a pang of jealousy.

Fighting it down, he turned and leaned a little towards his uncle as a few of the guests climbed up to the dais to join their hosts, gaily laughing and chatting.

“Uncle, Juliet is beautiful tonight! She does our House proud,” Tybalt called over the sound of the music.

“That dress was her mother's idea,” called back Lord Capulet. “I think it's too provocative.”

“She _is_ sixteen, Uncle; almost a grown woman,” Tybalt pointed out.

“And still needs the protection and care of her family!” replied his uncle. Tybalt inclined his head in agreement.

“Tybalt, accompany me to the dance floor,” ordered his aunt, holding her hand out to him imperiously. Bowing, he bestowed an almost perfunctory kiss upon her hand then led her out onto the floor.

***

 

“A ball in a lion's den! I fear for our skins!” Romeo shouted to Mercutio who laughed.

“I'm sure your skin would look lovely in front of the fireplace!” he quipped back.

“Nah, he's not hairy enough to be a bear,” interjected Benvolio then ducked away as Romeo swiped at him. “Watch out, Tybalt's coming this way,” he added with a warning glance at Mercutio.

“I see him,” nodded Mercutio as he drew back into the shadows.

Out on the dance floor, the waltz drew to a close; Tybalt bowed to Lady Capulet who inclined her head then stepped away. Tybalt glared in Mercutio's direction; for a moment he wondered if somehow the tall man's keen eyes had spied him out, but then Tybalt caught at a passing man's arm and jerked his head to another corner. The man followed Tybalt. They appeared to be discussing something, the man's demeanour easy and confident whereas tension radiated from Tybalt's stance.

As the man pulled off his mask to grin at Tybalt, Mercutio blinked. “That's my uncle's cousin Paris!” he exclaimed. “What's he doing here? I thought he was away in Naples on business.”

“Lady Capulet's invitations were spread far and wide,” mused Romeo.

“Far indeed,” remarked Mercutio.

“Tybalt looks none too pleased at his presence,” observed Romeo.

“Nah, he always frowns,” shrugged Benvolio. “I've seen pugs chewing wasps that looked happier. Do you think he frowns when he's, you know?” He thrust his hips suggestively.

“I don't want to think of Tybalt shagging!” protested Romeo.

“And I don't want to think of him at all,” Mercutio added briskly. “I came here to dance. Come on!”

They dived into the throng behind Mercutio. He noted that Romeo didn't take long to find someone to dance with; he grinned as Romeo whirled by with a young girl in a long red gown. The gemstones on her dress flashed in fiery hues in the torchlight as her skirts swirled. Mercutio grinned; it seemed the inconstant Rosaline had been swiftly forgotten already.

He headed to the dais and climbed up next to Lady Capulet, keeping one eye on Tybalt as he stalked away from Paris. Even masked as he was, Mercutio could see he had a face like thunder, his lips set in a thin line. He paused as he caught sight of Romeo dancing with the girl in red, then as she spun away from Romeo then held out her hand, Tybalt swiftly cut in to take Romeo's place.

Mercutio watched with interest. He'd heard of the rumours of Tybalt frequenting the city's whorehouses, though he'd never done it whilst with Mercutio. He'd never heard of Tybalt ever dancing with a woman or trying to woo one. For all his stilted awkwardness ordinarily, Mercutio had to admit the tall taciturn Capulet could dance well and with some grace when he chose to. As they danced past the dais, Mercutio was surprised to see a warm smile upon Tybalt's face that was returned by the girl. He moved closer to the edge of the dais; something seemed awfully familiar about the girl....

“Mercutio! I am so glad you were able to join us!”

Mercutio turned and bestowed a brilliant smile upon Lady Capulet. “Dear lady, you are as ravishing as ever,” he responded as he bowed to her.

“And Valentine?” she asked.

“Much the same as ever,” Mercutio replied, his smile slipping a little. He held out his hand. “Would milady do me the honour of a dance?”

“I thought you'd never ask,” she said, her smile sharp. _As a tiger's_ , thought Mercutio as he nodded politely and led her out onto the dance floor.

As they danced, Mercutio made polite small talk with Lady Capulet, she doing likewise; each subtly fencing with words, dancing around each other's secrets even as their feet trod the familiar measure of the dance. At the end of the dance, he'd learned no more than he already knew – but at least was consoled by the thought that she had been equally frustrated. He led her back to the dais and bowed to her then went in search of Benvolio.

“Look, our Romeo didn't waste any time – he's got the prettiest girl!” shouted Benvolio over the music as he pushed a glass of wine into Mercutio's hand. Mercutio peered over the heads of the crowd and spied that Romeo had indeed reclaimed the hand of the girl in red whilst Tybalt was distracted, fetching a couple of glasses of wine.

“Oh-ho, that won't go down well with Tybalt,” replied Mercutio as he watched Romeo bend down slightly to murmur something in the girl's ear and she laughed, her eyes shining.

“People are watching,” observed Mercutio. “She must be the daughter of someone important. She seems almost familiar somehow.”

“Your uncle's kinsman looks about as pleased as Tybalt – oh look, he's cut in on Romeo!” exclaimed Benvolio.

“And Tybalt's on the warpath,” added Mercutio. “Watch out, they're coming this way!” Benvolio darted off in one direction as Mercutio slipped away in the other; as he moved away, he saw Tybalt catch Paris' arm and drag him away from the girl who darted back into the throng as Tybalt and Paris appeared to begin arguing heatedly. He filed the information away to mention to his uncle later.

The music changed into a circle dance; as Mercutio slipped into the circle he noted Tybalt breaking away from Paris to join in.

Mercutio found himself just behind Lady Capulet with Romeo and the girl just ahead; as they circled around the hall, on impulse he suddenly scooped Lady Capulet up with a whoop and swept her off her feet and into the shadows of an alcove as the rest of the circle danced on.

“Mercutio! What are you -”

Mercutio silenced her with a kiss; she returned it with fervour, and when he drew back her eyes were shining. “Mer _cut_ io Escalus, I never thought you had it in you!” she purred.

“And I dare say you'd rather it was in you,” he responded as he pressed closer.

“Why, sir, whatever can you mean?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him but he could see from the way her pupils were dilated that she knew perfectly well what he'd meant.

“Let me show you,” he breathed in her ear as he leaned closer. _Go on, Romeo, now's your chance to forget Rosaline for good_ , he thought, and hoped Romeo would actually appreciate the sacrifice he was about to make on his friend's behalf.

Though, he reflected as she drew him further into the shadows, some sacrifices could have their perks. He was fairly certain this was not what his uncle had had in mind when he ordered Mercutio to pump her for information.

Ah well.

***

The entertainment began just as the circle dance came to a halt; Tybalt had lost sight of Juliet in the crowd as they gathered outside on the terrace to watch the fire eaters, jugglers and performers. He couldn't see any sign of his aunt either. He spotted Paris on the far side of the crowd and was grimly amused by the disgruntled look upon his face. It seemed his attempts to woo Juliet were not going as smoothly as either he or Lady Capulet had anticipated, and Tybalt couldn't restrain the fierce grin upon his face. He crossed his arms and watched the fire dancers; he couldn't keep his attention on the performance however, his eyes frequently drawn away from the fire to search over the crowd, searching for a flame-hued dress.

He grew restless; the flames were dazzling, and it seemed he could almost see a halo around each torch. Glancing over the crowd, he fancied each person were limned in golden light. He pulled off his mask and rubbed his eyes; he must be more tired than he thought.

Turning away from the noise and light, he made his way back inside to the cool, dimly-lit ballroom. He caught sight of movement as he entered, and glanced up to see Juliet in the arms of a young man, both caught up in a passionate kiss, oblivious to all around them.

A blind fury overcame him and he sprang towards them with a howl of rage that brought his uncle and several guests hurrying in. Juliet and the youth sprang apart and stared at him in surprise as he advanced on the young man.

“Tybalt! What is the meaning of this?” exclaimed his uncle, grasping his arm.

“I'll kill him!” snarled Tybalt.

“Tybalt, don't make a scene!” ordered his uncle, shaking him as Tybalt glared at the youth who fled into the shadows behind the dais.

“I want to know who he is!” exclaimed Tybalt. “Who are you?” He shook off his uncle and sprang up onto the dais only to be confronted by the red-haired man he'd seen earlier, who was tugging his clothing straight and appeared flushed. His eyes were bright blue behind the mask.

“This is a masquerade, remember?” the man said, lifting up a hand to forestall him. The voice was strangely familiar but Tybalt was in too much of a fury to care.

“This _was_ a masquerade!” snarled Tybalt and glared at the youth as he fled into the crowd that was streaming in from outside, drawn by the shouting. “It's over for you!” he called over the growing hubbub.

His uncle was suddenly pushing past the youth, his hands raised. “Enough! People are enjoying themselves. Don't spoil it!”

“He was _kissing_ her!” exclaimed Tybalt. He blinked as his vision briefly blurred.

“Who kissed whom?” asked his uncle testily. “You saw nothing! You must have been seeing things. They were just talking! Stop making a fuss, everyone is looking!”

Tybalt turned away and leapt from the dais; his uncle hurried after him. He was aware of Paris lingering nearby which merely inflamed his anger further. “They were not talking -” he began heatedly.

“They were!” growled his uncle. “Would you defy me under my own roof?" He lifted his hand; without thinking, Tybalt flinched.

There was a rustle of silk and then his aunt was there, her hand grasping his uncle's wrist. Her hair was in slight disarray and she was panting slightly, her face flushed. She glared at her husband then slowly shook her head as Lord Capulet turned to stare. His jaw set, he pulled free of her then turned his back on Tybalt, plastering on a false smile.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the dance continues! Music!”

As the music started up once more, Lord Capulet turned to glare at Tybalt. “I will deal with you later,” he hissed before he strode away to the dais.

Tybalt turned away. His head was starting to ache from the noise and heat; the music was turning into a wall of sound, tinny and harsh, dizzying him. He rubbed his temple as he tried to shake it off.

***

Mercutio grabbed at Romeo as he spotted him circling the edge of the dance floor, Benvolio jogging up to join them.

“Let's get out of here whilst we still can,” muttered Benvolio as he fell in beside them.

“It's too early to leave!” protested Romeo.

“Or too late,” replied Mercutio grimly. “What were you thinking? Don't you know who she is?”

“I don't care!” exclaimed Romeo as he stared over to the dais where the girl in red still stood.

“You should,” remarked Mercutio. He had finally figured out who she was; he should have recognised her from the start. “Capulet's daughter Juliet. Flirting with her right under her father's nose – that's like taking a dip in the Nile with the crocodiles!”

“Worse,” said Benvolio dolefully. “The crocodiles would at least kill you quickly; you'd be lucky if old Capulet grants you even that. If he knew who you were he'd throw you in a room with Tybalt and lock the door!”

“I'd sooner take the crocodiles,” Mercutio agreed.

“You worry too much!” laughed Romeo. “You heard him – he has no idea who I am! Come on, let's dance!”

His grin was infectious. Romeo in good humour was like a bouncing puppy, all energy and enthusiasm, and Mercutio felt his face breaking out into an answering grin. Clapping him on the shoulder, Mercutio nodded and followed him out onto the dance floor again.

He lost sight of Romeo once more on the dance floor; once moment he was there, the next moment Mercutio turned and he was gone. He looked to Benvolio who gestured to the dais in alarm. He spun and groaned.

Romeo was standing there, staring out across the floor; Mercutio didn't need to look to know he only had eyes for Juliet. He was oblivious to Tybalt who was stalking up behind him. At the last moment he seemed to sense his danger and turned, leaning away from Tybalt – but it was too late. Tybalt's hand shot out and tore the mask from Romeo's face.

Time seemed to slow down. Tybalt's voice carried clear and loud over the music. “A _Montague_!”

Mercutio was moving, sprinting towards the dais as Romeo ducked away from Tybalt. Mercutio gestured to Romeo who flung himself towards him. He was dimly aware of Juliet screaming in horror; Benvolio was at his side. They caught Romeo; Mercutio pushed him at Benvolio and shoved them towards the doors.

Tybalt was flinging himself after Romeo; without thinking, Mercutio shifted to catch him. Tybalt clutched at his arms; distracted, he turned and stared straight into Mercutio's eyes. Mercutio saw recognition suddenly dawn on Tybalt's face; his green eyes widened in shock and for a moment he thought he saw a flicker of something else there. It was gone as Tybalt's jaw set and anger washed across his aquiline features and he roughly thrust Mercutio away.

Mercutio darted after him and managed to overtake him. Romeo had lingered by the door, glancing back – to look for Juliet no doubt; Mercutio pushed him out, then grabbed Benvolio's arm as his friend took a swing at a Capulet. He pushed him after Romeo then turned to confront Tybalt.

Grinning, he flipped Tybalt the bird with both hands then fled.

Tybalt's scream of rage followed him into the night.

 

***

Tybalt stumbled as a lance of pain shot through his head; he could hear a roaring noise in his ears. He turned away from the door, staggering a few steps. He briefly was aware of his aunt running towards him with a look of alarm upon his face, and then he was falling into blackness.

He knew no more.

***

There was something between his teeth; leather from the feel. It bit into the tender flesh at the corners of his mouth painfully. He was pinned to the floor, unable to move; someone was stroking the hair out of his face. Hearing returned slowly; he heard distant shouting that slowly resolved itself into the voice of his aunt screaming at someone.

“Get off him, you idiots! You'll kill him! Get that thing out of his mouth – do you want to choke him?”

He managed to wrench his arm free as he opened his eyes, pushing the hands that sought to gag him away as he spat out the leather strap and managed to twist around onto his side. His body ached all over, and his head was pounding. He was confused and disoriented; the hand stroked his hair soothingly, and he reached out to grasp it desperately, clinging on as he tried to focus his eyes.

His aunt. She took his hand in hers as she ran her free hand soothingly through his hair; he managed to pull himself to his knees then clung to her arm as other hands reached to help him up.

“Tybalt, let go!” His aunt's voice. The hand was pulled free of his grasp and as he slowly managed to focus on her, she was dragged away by his uncle. He reached for her but she was gone; Peter was at his side however, and he managed to stand. He took a few halting, stumbling steps forward then felt himself starting to fall, but he felt arms catching him, slowing his fall. A serving woman rushed over to kneel beside him as she gently patted the sweat away from his brow; he clung to her as he dragged himself upright then pulled away from her and managed to stand, waving the servants away. They hung back, watching him anxiously.

He remembered. Remembered Juliet in that Montague's arms, kissing him. Her eyes filled with love for him. The love that he had dreamed nightly would be given to _him_. Love's first kiss – and given to someone else. A boy. The son of the man who slaughtered his father before his very eyes; stealing away the one bright, good thing in his life, that gave him reason to live, to _breathe_ each day.

And it hurt; dear God it _hurt_. If he had thought he had felt pain earlier, it was nothing to this. This was a red-hot burning spike driven through his heart; it was agony with each indrawn breath, each exhale a sob. Would that Lord Montague had driven his blade through _his_ heart also! Death would be preferable to this torment.

“Master?”

He pushed Peter away, barely able to breathe, to even see as the agony in head and heart threatened to overwhelm him. He stared around himself wildly, desperate to purge this intolerable pain from his being.

His eyes fastened on one of the braziers and he stumbled towards it; his mind numb with shock, he pulled the handkerchief from his right hand then thrust his hand into the flames. It took a moment for Peter and the servants to react; a moment in which the tongues of flame licked around his flesh.

The pain was exquisite; it drove out all though, all emotion until there was only the searing pain in his hand.

He was only dimly aware of hands upon him, pulling him back and holding him up. Shouts of alarm; someone screaming to call a doctor. Someone brought cool water to bath his burnt flesh; he was barely aware of it. His mind was blessedly silent; pain endorphins were flooding through his veins, bringing with them a kind of peaceful euphoria.

He let himself fall into their arms and down into the spiralling darkness that rose to engulf him once more.

 

 


	27. Chapter 27

“Mercutio, hurry!” called Benvolio.

Mercutio laughed breathlessly and dropped to the ground, lying there spread-eagled as he panted. Benvolio jogged on a few more steps then stopped and glanced back, also laughing. Romeo stumbled to a halt a little behind them both and dropped to the floor, chuckling.

“I refuse to take another step,” Mercutio panted. “Romeo, you dog, I have a stitch and it's all your fault.”

“Ah, but it was worth it!” smiled Romeo as he flopped over on his back.

“Are you sure about that? Tybalt looked like he was having a fit!” giggled Benvolio.

“No, but I dare say he'll have one if he lays hands on you again, Romeo,” said Mercutio as he sat up. “Your life won't be worth spit once he's done with you. Of all the girls to fall for...!”

“Ah, but one must fall before you can fly, Mercutio!” replied Romeo with a dreamy smile.

“That kiss has addled his brains,” remarked Benvolio. Mercutio sat up and pulled his mask off as he stared at Romeo. 

“Nay, her kiss gave me wings,” Romeo laughed as he lay there.

“Then kiss me too, that I might fly!” cried Mercutio as he leapt to his feet.

Romeo laughed breathlessly as Mercutio stood over him. His expression turned from mirth to surprise as his friend dropped down to sit straddling his hips.

“I want to fly too!” Mercutio cried, and then kissed him full on the lips before springing up again as Romeo sat up, spluttering and scrubbing at his mouth with his hand.

“I feel it!” said Mercutio in a dreamy voice and flapped his hands like wings. “I'm _flooaaating_.”

Benvolio was cracking up helplessly, and Romeo started chuckling as Mercutio pranced around him. “I'm flying!” he said in a high, sing-song voice, and then he stopped and stared at Benvolio.

“Benvolio, you look so beautiful....”

Benvolio broke off laughing and stared at Mercutio in alarm as he pranced closer. “No, no I'm not, I'm ugly!” he said hurriedly as he scrambled to his feet. “I'm ugly!” He began to flee Mercutio as Romeo bellowed with laughter. Mercutio grinned as he bounded after his friend.

“Benvolioooooooo!”

Mercutio had to say this for Benvolio: for a short man he had quite the turn of speed on him. But Mercutio had the advantage of longer legs however, and though Benvolio led him on a merry chase Mercutio caught him in the end, and kissed him square on the lips in the shadow of the ancient Roman arena. Benvolio spluttered and rubbed his lips frantically before they both dissolved into laughter and doubled over, trying to catch their breaths.

“Romeo, did you see his face?” laughed Mercutio as he wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. “Romeo?”

“We lost him I think,” said Benvolio as he clutched his side. “Now I have a stitch too.”

“Should we go back and look for him do you think?” mused Mercutio as he straightened.

“Nah, it's late. He'll have turned for home and bed – which is what we should do too,” observed his friend. “Hoo, what a night!” He glanced up at Mercutio and started to chuckle again. “Tybalt's face... his face!”

“Don't, or I shall start laughing again too, and my ribs hurt too much for that!” protested Mercutio, chuckling in spite of himself.

“Ah, well, it's late; I'm for home and my bed.” He held out his hand to Mercutio. “You get us into so much trouble but it's always worth it my friend.” As Mercutio took his hand in both of his, Benvolio nodded, his chuckle becoming a warm smile. “Brother.”

“Brother,” echoed Mercutio and nodded.

 

***

The first glimmerings of dawn were creeping slowly across the sky, blushing the clouds in burnished hues of red, gold and rose as Mercutio reached the palace. He let himself in through a servants' entrance, cutting through the kitchen and helping himself to a handful of sweet breakfast rolls and a cup of fresh coffee before heading up to his quarters. He kicked the door closed behind him and set his pilfered breakfast on a low table before tugging off his jacket and slinging it over the back of the settee then pulling his shoes off one after the other and tossing them to the side.

He sat on the settee with a sigh of satisfaction then took a sip of the coffee before biting into one of the rolls, still warm from the heat of the oven.

“Good night was it?”

“Very,” agreed Mercutio around the mouthful of bread. He swallowed, then grinned as he felt the back of the settee dip a little under Valentine's weight. “You should have been there; you were invited.”  
“We both know why that wasn't possible,” Valentine replied quietly. Mercutio felt a hand lightly rest upon his shoulder and lifted his own hand to cover it; Valentine's fingers were icy cold.

“I know,” he said sombrely. “And I am sorry for it.” His hand tightened slightly on Valentine's. “Your hand is like ice.”

“I am always cold,” replied Valentine softly. His breath ghosted across Mercutio's ear as he leaned closer. “I missed you,” he said wistfully.

Mercutio sat in companionable silence with his brother for a while, then released Valentine's fingers and held up a roll. “Breakfast?”

Valentine straightened behind him. “I'm not hungry. Tell me what happened; I want to hear everything. What did I miss? I want to see it all through your eyes.”

Though he couldn't see Valentine, he could picture the small sad smile that he must wear as he regarded his brother who had the freedom he must yearn for.

Mercutio described the evening's events; Valentine laughed at a couple of points. “You cuckolded Capulet under his very roof? Mercutio, that's so completely like you!”

Mercutio grinned roguishly. “Wasn't it just! And very revealing too; you'll never guess whose name she called out when she came. Good job the music was so loud.”

“Screamer is she? Tell me! Whose name?”

“Oh, and then some; I think I'm still a little deaf in that ear.” Mercutio winced. 

“Come on, tell me!” insisted Valentine. 

Mercutio told him, and there was silence. After a moment, he frowned. “Valentine?” He made to turn around but Valentine's hand on his shoulder squeezed reassuringly.

“Well, now. That makes a few things clear,” Valentine mused. “Will you tell Uncle?”

“I haven't decided yet,” replied Mercutio yet.

“Will you tell _him_?”

“That... is a very good question,” Mercutio replied slowly. “Somehow I don't think he wants to hear anything I have to say though – on that or any other subject.”

“Oh?” He felt Valentine lean closer. “Something happened; I can tell. Come on, out with it!” His voice was impatient.

Mercutio related the rest of the evening's events. When he'd finished, Valentine gave a long, low whistle. “That... is going to cause trouble,” he said quietly. “Tybalt won't let it lie; not after a perceived slight like that.”

Mercutio thought on a locket seen briefly and the pictures inside. “No, he won't,” he said. “I think... he was in love with her.”

“Tybalt? With his cousin? Then why -”

“Oh come on, Valentine – do you really think Lord Capulet would let his precious only child marry the family black sheep? He only tolerates him because his wife would make his life hell if he drove him out, and they've turned him into the perfect killer – better than any hired blade could ever be. No, Capulet keeps Tybalt around because he's useful, but if he'd had the slightest suspicion Tybalt felt anything more for Juliet than simple familial duty and affection then Tybalt would be out on his ear – or more likely at the bottom of the Adige with a chain around his neck and a pair of concrete overshoes before Juliet could have the chance to say “I do”.” Mercutio shook his head.

“And would that be such a bad thing?”

“Oh come on, Valentine; he can be a bit of an ass, but his only real fault is that for all he puts on that emotionless façade he feels far too deeply. Like a stray cat that's had stones chucked at it too often; treat him with gentleness and he purrs, but push him and the claws come out. It takes a lot of patience to coax him out and hardly anything at all to make him run away spitting.” Mercutio leaned back, musing. “Prince of cats indeed.”

“You still care for him.” Valentine's voice was cool and disapproving. Mercutio pondered for a moment then slowly nodded.

“Yes, I suppose in a way I do,” he admitted.

“He was an ass but at least he was your ass?”

“Not any more,” Mercutio said woodenly. “No thanks to you.” He closed his eyes and tilted his head back to rest on the back of the settee. “Go away, Valentine; I want to sleep.”

He heard nothing, but Valentine's voice came to him from near the door. “I'm... sorry you're still hurting,” he said quietly. “I... miss you. Please come visit me later?”

“I'll see,” said Mercutio noncommittally. “Now let me sleep.”

He knew full well he would go later, of course. He always did.

***

The morning was nearly over by the time Mercutio finally woke. He sat up and winced as his neck protested his having slept on the settee like that. He stared down at his clothes and shrugged before slowly hauling himself to his feet and starting to strip off.

He felt more himself after a shower, shave and change of clothes. He stared at his reflection in the mirror and sighed, then set off to go visit Valentine.

It was some time later that Benvolio ran into him as he wandered aimlessly past the Ponte di Castelvecchio. 

“Where have you been?” he exclaimed. “I've been looking all over for you! Romeo didn't come home last night!”

Mercutio's head jerked up. “You're kidding me.” As Benvolio shook his head, Mercutio groaned. “That boy!” he groused. “I knew we should have gone back to look for him.”

“Come on, let's head back to – where were we?” Benvolio paused.

“Near the Piazza Cittadelle, I think, but I doubt he'll be there now,” answered Mercutio as he broke into a jog. Benvolio ran to keep up as they headed down the Via Roma towards the arena.

They ran into a group of their friends in the piazza by the arena who hailed them both.

“Maybe they've seen him,” suggested Benvolio.

Four of them said they'd seen him earlier, but none since about 8am it transpired; it was now nearly 3 in the afternoon. 

“I'm hungry,” announced Mercutio. “Come on, let's go get something to eat.”

“What about Romeo?” asked Nicolo.

“To hell with Romeo!” snapped Mercutio testily as he threw up his hands.

“He stayed out all night,” explained Benvolio.

“He'll catch it from his mother,” snickered Gino.

“Ah, he's twenty; he's old enough to cut the apron strings and live a little,” shrugged Benvolio.

“I bet he's in love again,” observed Maria as she jumped down the steps then sat at the bottom, glancing up at them. “That's when he usually disappears.”

Her comment elicited many nods and murmurs of agreement. Mercutio rolled his eyes and jumped down the stairs. “Well, in love or not, he can just go hungry because I'm not going to starve whilst we wait for him!”

Benvolio tapped him with the back of his hand. “Oh ho, look who's coming!” he said _sotto voce_ and nodded at the road ahead. “Isn't that the woman we saw last night running around after that girl?”

“Her nurse?” guessed Mercutio. “Yes, it looks like it!” His face broke into a roguish grin. “Come on, let's have some fun!” He put on an expression of mock fear and darted behind Benvolio. “Save me, Benvolio, look at that ferocious beast!”

The nurse paused and put her hands on her hips with a frown. “Compared to your ugly mouth even my arse seems beautiful,” she retorted.

“Ooh, you've met your match, Mercutio!” laughed Benvolio.

“I am not defeated yet!” returned Mercutio as he stepped out from behind his short friend.

She strode forward. “Good morning to you, gentlemen!”

“And good morning to you, madam!” replied Benvolio with a courteous bow. “What can we do for you this fine morning?”

“Good to see _some_ young men around here remember their manners!” she said, giving Mercutio a pointed look, then turning to Benvolio. She leaned towards him in conspiratorial fashion; with mock-serious expressions Gino and Nicolo crowded close too. She glared at them until they straightened with innocent expressions. She arched an eyebrow then turned to Benvolio, whispering something.

His eyes widened a little then he mimed zipping his mouth shut.

“Well?” said Mercutio.

“I'm sworn to secrecy,” replied Benvolio as the nurse nodded with a haughty expression. “I'm absolutely not going to tell anyone that she's looking for Romeo.” He put on a shocked and contrite expression. “Oh dear, silly me, did I say that aloud?” The nurse looked outraged as the youths broke out into laughter.

“She's looking for Romeo!” “Who's looking for Romeo?” “ _Everyone's_ looking for Romeo!” they laughed.

“Romeo is a popular guy; all the ladies want him!” Benvolio chuckled. “What's he got that I haven't?”

“Dignity,” Mercutio shot back as the others laughed. Benvolio shrugged and smiled.

“It's true, I have none, nor shame either,” he agreed.

The nurse smacked him upside the head with the back of her hand and he winced as he rubbed his head.

“What do you want with Romeo, good lady?” asked Mercutio. “You must have quite the appetite!” She turned and gave him an outraged look. “For men!” he added hurriedly. “Though I'm not sure he goes for, er, _mature_ ladies such as yourself....” he finished with a grin.

“That's none of your business!” she snapped. Benvolio pushed Mercutio aside.

“Romeo's not picky, he'll love anyone!” he grinned. “Even such an... _ample_ woman such as you! He has a large appetite himself!” The others roared with laughter. “he's just the man you need, he'll satisfy you!”

As she advanced on him with a furious look, he darted behind Mercutio. “Ah, fair lady, no need to be embarrassed; we all have our needs and desires! And it's true Romeo is much in demand.”

“And here is the man himself!” exclaimed Benvolio glancing beyond the nurse.

“At last; like the devil, you speak his name and he appears!” said Mercutio.

Benvolio pushed past Mercutio and grabbed Romeo's shoulder. “And where the devil have you been, Romeo?” he asked. “Everyone's been looking for you! Me, your mother – and the Capulets' nurse!”

“What?” asked Romeo, then stepped around him towards the nurse as Mercutio bounded in front of him.

“She wants you and only you! Your reputation has preceded you Romeo!” he grinned.

“Leave me alone, you idiots,” said Romeo with a grin as he walked up to the nurse and took her arm. “Give a man five minutes will you?”

“Ah, no-one wants poor Mercutio!” sighed Mercutio, holding his hand over his heart melodramatically. His eyes fell on Benvolio. “Benvolio, you're looking beautiful again!”

“Oh no, I'm ugly, I'm ugly!” laughed Benvolio as he darted behind Gino, Mercutio in pursuit as the others all laughed and whooped, cheering them both on.

By the time Mercutio had given up on chasing Benvolio and tired of the game, Romeo was walking back, the nurse nowhere in sight. “Romeo! So tell us – did you satisfy the lovely lady?” Mercutio called, leaping back down the steps towards his friend.

“Ah, I had to let her down gently, Mercutio; how could she ever compare to your charms?” he grinned. “Your lovely blue eyes are beyond compare!”

“Flatterer! Come on, let's go eat,” he grinned. “You can tell me more about my lovely eyes.” he slung an arm around Romeo's shoulders. “And you're paying,” he added.

Romeo laughed, and they headed off down the road, the nurse's message forgotten.


	28. Chapter 28

Tybalt opened his eyes and stared up at the canopy of his bed. His right hand ached and itched. For a moment he wondered why, and then as he slowly sat up memory returned in bits and pieces. He rubbed his forehead with his good hand as he kicked aside the down comforter and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

That was one of the unpleasant things about the fits; upon waking afterwards, there was always a period of disorientation in which he could be quite accurately said to be not entirely in his right mind. It was as though the seizure flayed away his emotional defences, leaving the nerves raw and bleeding. He recalled the events of the previous evening, but the thought of Juliet in the arms of the Montague boy no longer sent a lance of pain through his chest like a physical knife being twisted in his heart. Instead he felt a smouldering, burning rage, a fierce hatred; a desire to see the boy die upon the point of his blade. He would rue the day he ever laid hands upon his beloved Juliet.

He winced; he had unconsciously clenched his fists in his anger, and his right hand screamed in pain, throbbing and hot. He uncurled his hand and stared down at it. He supposed he should feel grateful for the pain; at least the nerves appeared undamaged. In time he should wield a sword again with that hand; in the meantime he was glad he had trained to fight with either hand.

Someone had dressed the burns as he lay unconscious; he turned his hand over slowly, inspecting the white bandages. The thin fabric swathed his palm; his fingers appeared to have escaped mostly unscathed save for some tenderness and reddening. He supposed he had been fortunate his rash impulse had not had worse consequences. Still, the bandages would occasion comment and attention he would prefer to avoid.

He rose and dressed himself with some difficulty, his injured hand hampering him somewhat. He chose leather and silk, all in black, and cursed as he realised he would need Peter's help to put his boots on. He tugged the red silk scarf off and changed it for a black one. He would wear no colour save black until the boy was dead.

Upon a shelf in his wardrobe he found a pair of black leather fingerless gloves. With a little tugging he was able to pull one on over the bandage; it might draw one or two odd glances, but not as many as the glaring white bandage would. With luck it would be assumed to be some affectation on his part.

As he sat before the dresser and perfunctorily straightened his hair with a few strokes of the brush, he became aware of the sound of heated voices just outside his bedroom door. He frowned and rose, crossing the room towards the door. As he drew closer he could hear his uncle's voice, slightly muffled through the door.

“It's for his own good I tell you! You saw how he was, what he did! Stand aside, this is for his protection; the boy needs help!”

“Not like this!” His aunt, her voice venomous and angry. “You've hated him from the moment you first laid eyes on him; you'd do anything to see him shut away! He's a Capulet as much as I am; you will not lock him away like some wild animal!”

“It's a _clinic_ , for God's sakes woman, not a zoo or some lunatic asylum! They can help him! Now stand aside!”

“Over my dead body!” she cried.

He opened the door silently just behind her. She stood, her back to him, her hands braced against the door frame to either side. She was physically barring the door to her husband and another man who stood just behind him. As Lord Capulet glanced up at Tybalt, something in his face caused his uncle to blanch and take a step back. 

“Tybalt, my boy,” he said in a much different tone; gentler, calmer. “How are you feeling?” His aunt started, glancing over her shoulder.

“Well enough, uncle,” he replied coolly as his aunt wrapped her arms around him, holding him close as he stood still, impassive.

“Tybalt, he wants to have you committed by psychiatrists! I will not permit it!”

He lifted an arm to encircle her shoulders gently and gave her a very chaste kiss upon the temple as befitted a dutiful nephew then fixed his uncle with a flat stare as he replied.

“That won't be necessary. I fear my uncle has confused my natural confusion after a seizure with something far worse. _Signor Dottore_ , my apologies that you have been called out unnecessarily.”

The doctor cleared his throat. “I, ah, was led to understand there had been an, hmm, _incident_ , shall we say, of self-harm that had Lord Capulet concerned for your safety -”

“I stumbled and burned myself – I am often clumsy after a seizure.” He glanced down at his aunt. “I did warn you someone might have an accident with so many torches, aunt.”

“Tybalt, I am so sorry, I never dreamed -”

“Hush,” he said gently, kissing her again upon the hair. “No harm done.” He did not take his eyes off his uncle.

“I, ah, quite. Well.” Lord Capulet seemed at a loss for words; whatever he had expected when Tybalt opened the door, this very much was not it. Tybalt's calm demeanour had thrown him.

“I see I am not required,” said the doctor hastily; it appeared it was not merely his uncle who had been unnerved by Tybalt's presence. “I shall see myself out; good day to you Lord Capulet, Lady Capulet. My apologies for disturbing you, young sir.”

Tybalt inclined his head in acknowledgement, his arm tightening a little about his aunt's shoulders in quiet reassurance as the doctor turned and made his way back down the stairs.

“Tybalt, my boy, I had only the best intentions; I thought -”

“You thought wrong.” His voice was flat and cold. “Uncle,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Do you have any further need of me?”

“No, no, I have no duties for you; your time is your own, my boy,” replied his uncle hastily as he backed away until Tybalt was alone with Lady Capulet.

He released her and stared down at her, his face impassive.

“I would not have let him take you, Tybalt. You are my brother's son -”

“I am well aware of whom I am, madam,” he said quietly. She looked up into his face and smiled fondly.

“You are so like him at your age,” she said softly. She reached up and stroked his cheek gently; he raised his hand to cradle hers as he turned his head slightly to kiss her palm.

“You mourn him as I do,” he said, his voice low.

“How can I not? Tonight we mourn him anew, at the Mass in his memory.”

“I have not forgotten,” Tybalt replied.

“I see him again in your eyes,” she breathed. He smiled faintly as he leaned forward.

“I am not my father,” he whispered.

 

***

He strode swiftly through the marketplace; he had no interest in the wares being offered. He had a purchase of a different kind in mind that day.

As he walked, he chanced to overhear a snatch of conversation that halted him in his path; he turned on his heel and swiftly backtracked to where a group of people were gossiping in low voices. Some were Capulet servants, he noted; another was his cousin Rosaline. He frowned; she seemed angry, as did several of the servants.

“It is _true_ , I tell you!” an older man was insisting. “Everyone is talking of it!”

“They're in _love_ ,” declared the woman standing next to him. “Maybe this will even unite their two houses, who knows?”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Tybalt as he pushed in amongst them and rounded on the man and woman. Rosaline turned to him.

“Tybalt, I just heard it! Here, but in the church too!”

“No, it cannot be!” he denied.

“It's true, it's true!” several voices clamoured, the woman adding, “They're even planning to elope!”

He stared at them aghast. “It's lies, all lies!” he cried as he backed away.

“Tybalt!” cried Rosaline as she ran after him.

“Lies!” he repeated loudly as he turned and pushed his way through the crowd. It couldn't be true. Not Juliet and the Montague boy! Juliet was innocent; she _had_ to be! Lies, all of it a pack of lies. His feet sped faster even as Rosaline ran after him calling him back. His legs were longer and he soon out-ran her.

He would not allow Juliet's name to be sullied by the common rabble. He would clean away the rumours with the boy's blood. This insult to her name would not be born.

***

It had taken longer than he thought to complete his errand; it was late afternoon by the time he returned to the Capulet estate. As he entered the house, Peter came running to take his coat as Alfonso, his father's old retainer, followed huffing.

“Tybalt, sir, I understand there is trouble brewing!” he said as he caught his breath. Tybalt turned and stared at him as he shrugged off his coat into Peter's waiting hands.

“Mind your own business,” he snapped as he brushed past him. Both Peter and the old man followed him into the parlour. He sat down and held one booted foot out to Peter to assist him to remove his boots.

Old Alfonso frowned. “Your father would never have spoken to me this way. Nor would he have let this thing happen. He -”

“My father was my father, and I am myself!” Tybalt snapped. “Now get out!” He glared down at Peter who had just managed to wrestle the boot off and was reaching for the other; in a flare of anger, he pushed Peter away and rose, walking over to the empty fireplace to stare down into the grate as he heard Alfonso retreat. He regretted his anger almost at once, but said nothing. As Peter knelt down and reached for the other boot, he extended his foot out and allowed him to remove it. His anger was not Peter's fault. There was only one person he could blame for his foul temper.

“Tybalt.” His aunt's voice, behind him. He turned to face her. “What time is your father's Mass tonight?”

“At half seven,” he replied as he slowly crossed the room towards her. “As it is every year, since he was slain by the Montague dogs.”

She took his hands in hers, careful of his burned hand, and stared up into his eyes. “Everyone will be there to honour my brother. They will look to you as his heir.” She shook his hands once, gently, in emphasis then slipped one hand free as he brought the other to his lips and kissed the fingers reverently.

He bent his head down towards her; the perfume of roses was like a scented cloud as he inhaled slowly. She tilted her head up towards his, as though to kiss him as she slid a hand up into his hair, her eyes dark and hypnotic. He turned his face towards hers as his lips parted, her breath warm upon his lips.

She pulled his head forward and down and bestowed a light kiss upon his forehead then stepped back, releasing him. He halted as she drew away.

“We're all counting on you, Tybalt,” she said quietly. “Do not disappoint us.” Then she was gone, leaving Tybalt to wrestle with conflicting emotions. After a moment, he returned to the chair and sat down to allow Peter to slip a pair of shoes upon his feet.

After a moment he glanced up from his reverie to find Peter still standing there.

“Will there be anything else sir?”

“No,” he answered with a shake of his head. “You may go.”

Peter bowed then left the room, leaving Tybalt alone with his thoughts. He reached to his belt and withdrew a knife from its sheath. Long, sharp and thin with a triangular blade, it was a lethal-looking thing, a stiletto. It could slip past a man's ribs easily to pierce his heart; there would be barely a trace of a wound after – it would hardly bleed at all, even as the man died. 

He brooded as he stared at it. “Romeo, I hold your death,” he whispered, then sheathed it. The next time he drew it, it would be baptised in Montague blood.


	29. Chapter 29

Mercutio was angry.

No, actually; make that downright furious.

His uncle had entered the breakfast room just as he sat down to his coffee, and threw down an envelope in front of Mercutio, spilling the fresh brew he hadn't even had a chance to sip at yet.

“Uncle!” he'd protested, with a disgusted look; the Prince had silenced him with a look.

“I think you need to see these,” was all he said.

Mercutio had picked up the envelope, already dreading what he would see. He fanned the photos out on the table, leafing through them.

“Where did you get these?” he breathed.

“Security camera footage, a couple of operatives with telephoto lenses. One of our men managed to slip into the church unseen.” The expression on the Prince's face was hard, but there was a sympathetic light in his eyes. “I thought you ought to know. I've given orders for the guard to be doubled; all leave cancelled for the next 48 hours. Go find him.”

Now he was stalking towards the arena with a face like thunder.

“Mercutio! Hey, Mercutio!” called Benvolio from behind. “Have you heard -”

“Yes,” he ground out between gritted teeth. “I heard.”

“It's not possible!” exclaimed Gino as he fell into step with them.

“You've heard? I don't believe it! How could he?” cried Maria as she joined them halfway across the piazza.

“They say he's in love with Juliet,” said Benvolio, his normally-jovial face dark and sombre.

“A Capulet? How could he do that?” exclaimed Maria. “To his family!”

“You've heard then?” asked Niccolo as he and three others fell in with the group.

“Oh yes, we've heard; seems the whole damned city has heard,” growled Mercutio. He came to a halt and slammed his fist into the palm of his other hand and swore. “After we warned him, after all we said -” He turned and spat in the dust.

“They're killers!” snarled Maria. “Every single one of them! How many of us have they taken? And they curse and slander us!”

“They spent the night together,” said Mercutio darkly. “That night after the ball, when he didn't go home.”

“He's crazy, insane!” exclaimed Benvolio, shaking his head. “I just can't believe it.”

“Tybalt saw them together,” snapped Mercutio. “There's going to be bloodshed, mark my words.”

“What will the Prince say when he finds out?” breathed Niccolo; Mercutio rounded on him.

“How the hell do you think _I_ found out?” he snarled. “He already bloody knows! He-” He broke off as Benvolio slapped him on the arm with the back of his hand and jerked his head in the direction of the south entrance to the piazza where Romeo had just ambled in as though he hadn't a care in the world.

As if he hadn't just betrayed everything his family and friends stood for.

Mercutio stalked towards him, the others fanning out behind him, all wearing grim expressions. Romeo walked towards them with a smile that faltered as he saw their faces and the look in Mercutio's eyes. They halted a few paces in front of him.

“Here you are at last, Romeo.” Mercutio glared at him as Benvolio strode up to Romeo and shoved him back a step.

“A fine little ruckus you've stirred up,” he growled. “Was she worth it?”

“Benvolio?” Romeo's tone was one of bewilderment; he turned to Mercutio. “I have to talk to you.”

Benvolio shoved him a little harder. “And _we_ have to talk to _you_!” he retorted. “What in hell were you thinking?”

“He _wasn't_ thinking; that's the problem!” called out Maria.

“Not with his head; his dick maybe,” nodded Gino. Mercutio made a cutting motion with his hand and they fell silent.

“You're going to get knifed. Tybalt knows what you did. He's going to be out for blood, Romeo. _Your_ blood.” He smiled sweetly, but his eyes were cold as ice. “And you'll bloody deserve it for kissing Capulet's daughter. What did you think would happen?”

“You betrayed us, and what do you think will happen _now_?” added Benvolio. “You've stirred up not one hornet's nest but two; your mother is furious! Don't you know this will mean war?”

Mercutio shoved Romeo back towards Benvolio. “You're head's been in the clouds too long, Romeo. A storm's coming and you're right in the middle of it – and you'll drag the whole damned lot of us with you!”

“You had no right!” cried Benvolio, thrusting his finger accusingly at Romeo.

“Don't talk to me about rights!” retorted Romeo, finally standing his ground as he stared at Benvolio. “You have no right to talk that way to me!”

“Have you lost your mind?” snapped Mercutio. “Have you no shame?” Romeo looked from him to Benvolio then back again.

“You're both mad!” he said.

“I'm bloody ashamed _for_ you, Romeo,” said Benvolio darkly. “After what you've done...!”

“Have you any idea how many people are going to suffer for what you did?” cried Maria. “Haven't they killed enough of us, that you want more blood on your hands?”

“And have you never been in love then?” retorted Romeo as he turned to single her out. “Any of you?”

“We would never have fucked a Capulet!” replied Gino. Romeo's eyes widened in fury.

“You -” He took a step towards Gino with raised fists, but suddenly Mercutio was standing in front of him, pushing him back.

“Romeo, look at yourself! Look at what you've done, what you're doing! You're as bad as one of them!”

“No, no!” he cried. “I'm not! You don't understand, Juliet's not one of them, she's different!”

“Oh, yes,” Mercutio said sarcastically as he nodded. “They're all _different_ when they spread their legs and you're balls-deep inside them.” he shoved Romeo hard. “She's still a Capulet in her blood you damn fool!”

“And Tybalt will take the insult whether she was willing or no,” said Benvolio. Mercutio nodded.

“Willing or...” Romeo stared at Benvolio, his eyes widening as the import of his friend's words struck home. “Benvolio, no! I would never rape her! Do you really think that of me? That I would be capable of something as horrible as that?”

“Tybalt will,” replied Mercutio. “And he won't care how many of us he has to go through to get to you,” he added as there was a chorus of “ayes” from Benvolio and the others.

Romeo turned to Mercutio with a pleading look. “Please, Mercutio, can't you just trust me?” he asked.

“I thought I had a friend called Romeo,” said Mercutio coldly. “He and I were close. As close as brothers. You? I don't know this Romeo. Why should I trust him? _You_ didn't trust _me_! You couldn't tell _me_!” His voice rose as he rounded on Romeo, the last said as a scream. “Why didn't you tell me, damn you?”

“Forgive me,” said Romeo quietly. “I should have.”

“Yes, you should but you _didn't_ , and now someone's going to die and it's not bloody well going to be me, Romeo Montague, you hear me? I'm not going to damn well die for you!” He turned away and walked a few paces before turning back. “You always were good at picking girls to screw, Romeo,” he said with a nasty grin. “But this time you screwed up which girl to pick.”

“Two families' lives?” said Benvolio. “No woman is worth that much!”

“Any woman would have had you, Romeo! Why did it have to be _her_?”

“Because I love her,” said Romeo quietly. Mercutio threw up his hands with a noise of frustration and turned on his heel.

“You had no right to do this, Romeo,” he said quietly over his shoulder before striding away.

“Mercutio! Mercutio, wait!” cried Romeo. The others stared at him then as one turned away and began to follow Mercutio. “Benvolio – please, just listen -”

Benvolio shook his head in disgust and spat at Romeo's feet before turning to follow Mercutio.

“Mercutio!”

Mercutio kept walking.

 

***

 

The air was heavy and humid; the tension in the air could be felt like a palpable miasma that lay over the city, infecting everything. Everyone seemed on edge and uneasy, the air still and silent, pregnant with threat. The sun was low in the sky, bathing the piazza in hues of blood and gold as shadows lengthened. There was no-one around save the small group of Montagues clustered around Mercutio and Benvolio.

Mercutio leaned against the wall of the arena, his arms folded.

“There's going to be trouble, Mercutio,” warned Benvolio in a low voice. “Nothing's happened all day. It's too calm.”

“Nothing is going to happen,” replied Mercutio testily. “Our Capulet friends have had time to sleep it off. They had too much wine at the ball, that's all.” He shook his head at Benvolio. “You're like a man who lays down a knife and says 'pray God I won't need this tonight' then two drinks later is looking for a fight. Nothing will happen, Benvolio!”

“I hope you're right, for all our sakes,” said Benvolio quietly. “But I'm still afraid for Romeo.”

“Hey, you!” A voice rang out from across the piazza; they lifted their heads and Mercutio pushed himself away from the wall as he stared at the small group of people who advanced towards them, Tybalt at their head.

“Capulets!” cried Mercutio as he bounded forward with a fierce grin, like a spring finally uncoiling that had been wound too tightly. He strode towards Tybalt, who halted perhaps twenty feet away from him, staring at Mercutio with a look of cold disdain.

_Ah, so it was to be like this, was it?_

“Tybalt! You're looking as well as ever,” he smiled. He glanced at the glove and smirked. “Ooh, nice touch; I didn't know retro was back in fashion this season! Never figured you for an 80s fan.”

Tybalt merely raised one eyebrow. “I want a word, Mercutio.”

“Only a word? Couple it with something; make it a word and a blow,” taunted Mercutio with a shrug.

“Don't test me, Mercutio; you'll find me far too willing to accommodate you. My patience goes only so far where you're concerned.” Tybalt's lip curled in a sneer as he fingered the black silk scarf at his throat meaningfully. “Where's your friend? If the dogs are here then their master can't be far behind. I know you hang out with Romeo.”

“Hang out? Who do you think we are, musicians in a band?” It was Mercutio's turn to sneer. “If we look like musicians to you, you can expect to hear nothing but noise.” He grabbed his crotch with a grin. “This is my fiddlestick; shall I use it to make you dance, Tybalt?” 

“We’re talking here in a public place. Either go someplace private, or talk it over rationally, or else just go away. Out here everybody can see us,” warned Benvolio. “Do you want the guard to see?”

Mercutio's ire was raised however. “Men’s eyes were made to see things, so let them watch. I won’t move to please anybody,” he said diffidently.

“Where is Romeo?” demanded Tybalt coldly. 

Benvolio rolled his eyes and gave it up for a bad job. Evidently a fight was inevitable. He turned to the rest of the Montagues.

“He's looking for Romeo!” he said in a sing-song voice, and the other Montagues catcalled and jeered. 

“I've seen you look for many things, my dear handsome Tybalt,” said Mercutio with a sardonic grin. “For luck, for money... for a fight!” He leapt forward and the Capulets around Tybalt reacted, reaching for knives even as Mercutio laughed and strolled back towards the Montagues before turning to face Tybalt again. 

“Once, even a girl.” He winked at Rosaline who stood a little behind and to the left of Tybalt; though the tall dark-haired Capulet remained impassive as he stared at Mercutio, Rosaline and the others reacted with outrage.

“But now you're looking for Romeo,” Mercutio remarked. “Was your hand not enough for you then?”

“Mercutio, don't make trouble for yourself,” said Tybalt dismissively as he paced slowly in a circle to his left, his eyes on Mercutio. “Where is he?”

Something about his tone caused Mercutio's hackles to rise and he felt a flare of anger as he turned to his left and paced. “Out nailing a pretty lady,” he said tersely, dropping the smile. “Be sure he doesn't nail you next!” he tossed back over his shoulder at Tybalt.

Tybalt's face darkened. _Too close to home._ He felt his rage grow from cold fury into white-hot heat. “Where is he?” he snarled.

The flash of rage spilled over like a flame to a touchpaper. Both Capulets and Montagues spread out, eyeing each other, as Mercutio and Tybalt circled in the middle like a pair of bristling cats.

Mercutio glared at Tybalt, all the repressed hurt and anger welling up into rage. “Tybalt, Tybalt!” he said in a taunting, sing-song voice, and grinned as he saw it have the desired effect on the other man, Tybalt's eyes flashing in fury. “Run away, Tybalt; run away, little cat before you get your tail cut off! Run away, rat-catcher!”

“Mercutio, just look at yourself!” snarled Tybalt. “I'll step on you like the worm you are! You're a clown, a jabbering fool, but I'll teach you to be silent, you dog! You're a dead man!” He set his hand on the hilt of his knife even as Mercutio threw himself towards him. Montagues and Capulets leapt at each other.

“Stop! Stop it, all of you!” cried Romeo as he pushed into the midst of the melee and thrust himself between Mercutio and Tybalt. “Don't you see, both your lives will be forfeit if you fight! You're both mad! Enough!” He pushed Mercutio back out of the way as he turned to Tybalt.

“End the fighting, end this hate!” he urged him. “Put revenge behind you!” He held out his right hand to Tybalt. “I am your brother, Tybalt. Please. Stop this.”

Tybalt stared at him then at his hand. _His... brother?_ He looked up at Romeo again who nodded.

“It's true. We're kinsmen. Please, set aside this hatred.” Romeo spoke with an honest earnestness.

Tybalt stared at Romeo's hand again. If the rumours were true... if Romeo truly had married his Juliet as they were saying.... If he had made an honest woman of his beloved cousin, she must truly love him. _Why him?_ his mind cried silently. _Why did it have to be him?_ But if Juliet had chosen this man, who was he to stand in her way? And yet, he was a Montague. 

He closed his eyes briefly, and thought of Juliet as he raised his injured right hand slowly, then held it out to Romeo. As Romeo took it in a firm grip, he winced involuntarily.

A Capulet and a Montague locked in a fight together knocked into Romeo, pushing him heavily into Tybalt who fell as Romeo's elbow struck his ribs. He dropped to the ground, clutching his side as the old wound protested painfully. 

He felt nothing but a haze of red rage. He had taken the hand offered in friendship and Romeo had betrayed his trust. He pushed himself to his feet and turned to stare flatly at Romeo.

Mercutio pulled Romeo away as Tybalt began to advance with cold purpose towards them; Tybalt moved faster.

“You coward! Stand and fight and I swear I'll kill you quickly!” he howled above the noise of the melee all around them.

Mercutio was suddenly there in front of him; he gave Tybalt a shove that sent the dark-haired man sprawling then pulled Romeo away swiftly. “Run, Romeo; he hates us, he always has!” he panted. “There's no backing down from a man like him. Go, get out of here!” 

He shoved Romeo behind him as he saw Tybalt get to his feet and advance towards him. He had to do something to distract Tybalt. He knew only too well how blinded the Capulet could become when possessed by rage; he had to somehow draw Tybalt's attention away from Romeo if any of them were to survive this day. Tybalt had lost all reason.

“Tybalt, you're a coward! A dog who's all bark and no bite!” he called.

“And you're a fool who talks too much!” screamed Tybalt over the din. “I'm done with your games; this is the last you'll ever play!”

“Come on then, I'm for you!” howled Mercutio in challenge. 

They leapt towards each other, Tybalt drawing his blade. 

At the last minute, somehow Romeo was between them, his arms lifting to block them both. He knocked Tybalt's arm as he lunged, deflecting his knife hand, and threw Mercutio off balance; Mercutio felt Tybalt slam into them and something hit him in the ribs.

It didn't hurt. 

He glanced down and saw with dull surprise the hilt of Tybalt's blade jutting from his ribs, perhaps two inches below his chest to the right. He staggered back and looked up into Tybalt's eyes; they were wide shock and horror. His blind rage had been doused by the shock of what he had done as full realisation dawned. His green eyes flicked down to the hilt of his knife then back up to meet Mercutio's gaze, then he backed away as Romeo turned.

“Mercutio?”

“I'm fine, it's nothing. Barely a scratch.” Mercutio tried to laugh but suddenly it hurt; hurt to laugh, hurt to breathe.

“Mercutio, let me see!” cried Romeo.

A hush seemed to fall over the square as Montagues and Capulets drew back, somehow sensing something deeper was going on beyond their scuffles.

Mercutio staggered back away from Romeo, his hand curled around the hilt of the knife. “A plague on both your houses!” he spat.

“Mercutio, you're hurt!” Romeo cried as Mercutio stumbled away, fumbling with the hilt of the knife until he was able to tug it out.

There was surprisingly little blood. _Shouldn't there be more?_ “It's nothing, just a scratch, see?” He tried to grin as he staggered.

“Mercutio! Oh my God, Mercutio!” Romeo groaned as he grabbed at his friend's arm to steady him.

“Romeo, you've always been clumsy. Why the hell did you have to get between us?” Mercutio panted. It was getting harder to breathe. He pushed Romeo away then suddenly he was falling, the ground rising too fast. He gasped as he hit the hard ground; for a moment he couldn't move, and then somehow he managed to push himself to his feet.

“Mercutio -”

“Don't say you're sorry!” he managed to snarl. He straightened slowly. “Only children say they're sorry. And Juliet needs a man. Love her; she can give you what no other woman can.” He pushed Romeo gently with a sad smile then pressed his hand over the wound as he gasped. He felt wetness beneath his palm.

“Mercutio, you need help, we've got to get you to a hospital!” pleaded Romeo.

“I'm fine, I'm fine!” Mercutio tried to laugh. “Though call for me tomorrow and you'll find me a grave man.”

“Mercutio, don't joke of such things!” Romeo protested.

Mercutio tried to speak, to say something but suddenly he was falling, and this time he couldn't catch himself.

Romeo's arms were around him, cradling him gently as he lowered him to the ground. “Mercutio, Mercutio!” he groaned. Someone was weeping in the background; was that Benvolio?

“You'll have to fight your war without me, Romeo,” he whispered as he stared up into his friend's tear-streaked face. It was getting harder to breathe; he could taste blood in his mouth.

“Mercutio, look at me. You can't die, Mercutio, you have to live. I need you!”

“What will you do without me?” murmured Mercutio, his breath rasping in his throat. His eyes felt so heavy and he felt so tired. 

“No, Mercutio, stay with me, you're going to be alright – you've got to be alright,” pleaded Romeo desperately.

“I'll be OK,” Mercutio smiled faintly as he lifted a hand to pat Romeo's face gently. “I'll be with Valentine. I'll... be....”

Tybalt stared, numb with shock, as Mercutio's hand fell limply to the ground and his eyes closed. His body gave a shudder, and then he lay still.

Romeo hunched over Mercutio's body as Benvolio knelt in the dust beside him, weeping bitterly. “Mercutio, don't go! Don't leave me!” sobbed Romeo as he clutched at Mercutio's bloodstained shirt. “Mercutio!” He doubled over, his head bowed, and then he screamed in raw pain.

Tybalt flinched at the sound, his own breath catching in his throat.

Romeo's head snapped up and he turned to fix Tybalt with a glare of pure hatred. “Tybalt,” he hissed, then louder, “Tybalt!” He leapt to his feet and snatched up the knife as he threw himself towards the silent Capulet.

He swung wildly; Tybalt was slow to react, his mind still reeling and numb over what he had just done. He clumsily managed to deflect the first wild swing and the second, then gasped as he felt the dagger slide between his ribs. Romeo grasped his hair and yanked his head to the side, raising the knife for one last blow.

The blade caught on the silk scarf as it slashed across his throat. He lifted a hand toward his neck as blood spilled down his chest, and then he was falling, the ground rushing up to meet him. He couldn't breathe. _So much blood._ He tried to reach a hand out towards Mercutio, but his arm wouldn't work. _Cold. Feel so cold._

Someone was screaming his name.

He was so very, very tired. 

He closed his eyes.


	30. Chapter 30

He opened his eyes slowly and took a deep breath, then winced as his ribs felt like they were on fire.

That surprised him. That he could breathe at all, much less feel anything.

He could hear the hiss of an oxygen cylinder; his mouth tasted strange and metallic, and there was a plastic tube in his mouth. He pushed it experimentally with his tongue as he stared up at the white ceiling, and then he coughed as the tube shifted in his throat.

Bad move. His throat screamed in pain; a red-hot line across the front of his neck, and his ribs were on fire. He would have screamed but somehow he couldn't make a sound. He was choking. His hands clutched at his throat and his fingers touched fabric; bandages and dressings of some sort. 

He kicked his legs free of the thin hospital blanket as he writhed on the bed, desperately trying to sit up as an alarm went off, and then there were nuns in white nursing garb all around him, holding him down as a doctor bent over him.

“Sedate him,” ordered the doctor; Tybalt's eyes flew wide in alarm and he frantically shook his head. _No, no, no!_ Still he couldn't make a sound.

“What's happening?”

He remembered that voice. Father Lawrence – he officiated at his father's memorial Mass every year. 

The priest was at his side and pushing away the doctor. “Hold on, wait,” he ordered, splaying his arms out over Tybalt protectively. “Tybalt, calm yourself. They are trying to help you.”

Tybalt still couldn't breathe properly, but he stilled, gesturing to his throat.

“Get the tube out,” Father Lawrence. “I think it's doing more harm than good right now.” He stared down at Tybalt. “This will be uncomfortable, but it'll be over quickly.”

Tybalt nodded understanding as two nurses bent over him.

“Uncomfortable” was an understatement; but thankfully it was over quickly, and once Tybalt was no longer gagging on the tube he found he could breathe easier.

He tried to speak but could only manage a hoarse, rasping whisper. “What... what happened?”

Father Lawrence gestured for water and ushered the nurses and doctor out, drawing the curtains around Tybalt's bed before answering. He helped Tybalt sit up a little then held the cup whilst he sipped cautiously.

“It's a bad business all round,” the priest said, shaking his head. “They'd taken Mercutio away to his uncle's estate before I got there. Prince Escalus banished Romeo for murdering you – or so they thought. Your aunt arrived at the piazza just in time to see the whole thing; she begged me to perform the Last Rites upon you then fled; she was in quite a state.” He sighed heavily as he straightened. “I found you weren't dead – not yet, anyway. Your heart stopped twice on the way here, but they managed to revive you, and you were rushed straight into theatre the moment we arrived,” he finished sombrely.

“I... died twice?” Tybalt was tying to take it all in.

“Well, technically, you could put it like that,” nodded Father Lawrence. “For a couple of minutes perhaps.”

“Juliet. Where is Juliet? I want to see her,” he rasped.

“Ah. I rather thought you might,” said the priest slowly. “She... she lies in your family crypt.”

He couldn't breathe. His eyes widened. _No. Not Juliet._ He felt a cold fist clench around his heart. _What was the point of living if she was gone?_ He tried to ask “How?” but nothing escaped his throat, only a strange keening sound.

“Tybalt, Tybalt, calm yourself!” exclaimed the priest, leaning over and resting his hands on his shoulders, holding him down as he tried to rise. “Tybalt, she's not dead. Tybalt, listen to me! _Juliet is not dead_!”

The priest's words finally penetrated his overwhelming grief; he clung to the priest in complete bewilderment.

“Don't... understand,” he finally managed in a hoarse whisper.

“A ruse,” said the priest hastily, his voice low. “There's no way your aunt and uncle would have let her leave with Romeo. They planned to marry her to your uncle's cousin, Paris.”

Tybalt tried to sit upright again, but the priest's hand on his chest held him back, and he was too weak to struggle further.

“I gave her a drug; one that mimics death. It slows the heart and respiration; to all intents and purposes she would seem dead. The Prince bribed the doctor to declare her -”

“The Prince? The Prince knows of this?” Tybalt was incredulous.

“Yes, he knows, Tybalt. There is bad blood between Escalus and his cousin; he has long suspected him of plotting against him. No proof of course; but it served his purpose to provide the necessary funds to ensure the ruse held. The Capulets believed her dead and laid her to rest in the family vault. She will wake in a few hours, when Romeo will arrive under cover of darkness to take her away. They will start a new life together in Mantua under assumed names.”

Tybalt lay back and pondered. “Take me to her,” he said finally in a hoarse whisper.

“Tybalt, I don't think -”

“I don't care what you think. I want to see for myself that she still lives, and say goodbye. After that you may do with me as you wish; I no longer care.”

“Tybalt, you have much to live for -”

Tybalt fixed him with a glare. “Do I? Do I really? I am fit for nothing except killing and causing misery. Juliet has been the one good thing in my life since my father's death, and now I am to lose even her to the son of the man who slew my father.” He smiled mirthlessly at the priest. “I will say goodbye to her, and then I am done.” He turned his face away; his chest ached, and his throat felt raw from the effort to speak. “I have destroyed everything I ever cared for. Let me see her, and then let me die.”

The priest was silent for a moment, then he gave a heavy sigh. “Very well. I will take you to her – but not now. In a few hours, when the sun begins to set. You are still very weak; they had to give you five pints of blood during the operation. Your left lung was pierced and collapsed, you had extensive internal bleeding, and you not been wearing a scarf, the slash across your throat would have killed you even if the lung wound did not prove fatal. I fear you will bear the scar until the end of your days, however long they may be, and your voice may never fully recover. You should rest and sleep. I will wake you when it is time to go.”

“Bring me clothes... please,” asked Tybalt softly. “I would not stand before her in this hospital gown.”

“Of course,” Father Lawrence replied gently. “Sleep now.”

He slept.

***

At dusk, as promised, Father Lawrence returned with clothes. Tybalt dressed slowly and with difficulty, hampered by not only his hand but his other injuries and weakness, but he would not permit the nurses to dress him. He only conceded to allowing them to lace on his boots as that was beyond him. He took the wide black silk scarf the priest offered him, and wound it carefully around his throat until the pristine white bandage was obscured from view.

They took a taxi across town. Tybalt was silent the whole way, and Father Lawrence did not intrude upon his thoughts.

Tybalt looked up at the dark vault as the car pulled in and coasted to a smooth halt. He shrugged off Father Lawrence's hand and struggled out of the car on his own. He moved forward then halted as his sharp eyes picked out a hint of movement in the shadows.

“Show yourself,” he snarled in a harsh whisper.

Benvolio stepped out into the faint light from the streetlights outside the cemetary; but it was not the Benvolio Tybalt thought he knew. This was not the jokester, the light-hearted fool, friend to everyone (save Capulets); this was a seemingly older, more haggard Benvolio with red eyes and rough stubble, a Benvolio who had not slept, shaved or eaten for more than a day, it seemed.

“So you lived then,” he greeted Tybalt dully.

“What is he doing here?” hissed Tybalt. His hand snaked for the hilt of his knife out of pure reflex but it closed on empty air. He checked himself.

The motion did not go unnoticed by Benvolio, who smiled mirthlessly. “I swear you must have nine lives, and an asshole in every one of them,” he remarked quietly. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Tybalt is here to say goodbye to his cousin,” said Father Lawrence quietly. “Tybalt, Benvolio will accompany Romeo and Juliet on their way to Mantua before returning here.”

Tybalt felt an unfamiliar guilt; there had been no chastisement in his tone, but Tybalt felt it nonetheless. He was silent for a moment. “I am... sorry... for what I did to Mercutio. I can never make amends for my crime, but... I do regret it,” he said haltingly, those few words painful and soft.

Benvolio blinked at him, startled, then slowly nodded. “I'll be in the car,” was all he said.

Tybalt entered the vault alone. It was familiar to him; he had come here often over the years to pay his respects to his father. His mother lay here too, but he had no memory of her. She had died bare minutes after he was born; he had never known her. Strange, he hadn't thought of her in years. All his memories of her had come from the photos that had adorned his childhood home. He tried to remember if she had had green eyes too.

Juliet was laid out on a bier in the inner chamber, a little way away from his father's tomb. A single light had been left on in the otherwise shadowy chamber; he was glad she had not been left in the dark. It would not have been good for her to awaken in darkness, alone and afraid.

He drew closer to her side and stared down at her. Despite Father Lawrence's assurances, she appeared dead. He could see no sign of her chest rising and falling with any breath; he bent over her and rested his head against her breast and heard no heartbeat. He lay there for some time, and was unsurprised to find his face wet with tears when he finally, reluctantly, straightened again. He took her hand between both of his; it was cold, like ice, and limp.

He slumped to his knees beside the bier, still holding her hand and sobbing silently. What good was living without her? What was life, when the thing most precious to him had been snatched away? He held her cold hand to his cheek and wept bitter, silent tears as he gently kissed her lifeless palm over and over, each kiss a silent plea for forgiveness he knew he could never deserve.

He could not have said how long he knelt there, but finally his eyes were dry, no more tears left to fall. He slowly, painfully pulled himself back up again, and laid her hand upon her breast before leaning over and gently kissing her lips.

He blinked, half-fancying he felt some faint stirring of breath upon his face. He licked his lips nervously, and leaned closer again.

There, he felt it; a ghost of breath, chill against his moistened lips. He gasped.

She lived. Juliet _lived_.

He clutched her hand to his breast, crying silently once more; but this time they were tears of gladness. If there were a God, then perhaps this was His sign of forgiveness.

The sound of a booted foot in the antechamber woke him from his reverie of thankfulness; swiftly replacing Juliet's hand upon her breast, he made his way into the shadows. His father's tomb was smooth and devoid of ornamentation much as Juliet's bier was; in desperation he laid himself upon it, his hands upon his breast, closing his eyes. If he was thought dead then none would be surprised to see his body lying here in the tomb near his cousin.

He heard the footsteps approach Juliet's bier, and then a muffled, choked sob. In it Tybalt recognised the utter despair and grief he himself had endured only a short time before. Romeo wept over Juliet for some time until his breath came in shuddering gasps and hiccups.

Tybalt heard Romeo shift around the crypt, and then felt him approaching the tomb where he lay. He fought to keep absolutely still; he breathed as shallowly as possible, arching his back slightly with each exhale so as to give the appearance of not breathing. His heart was beating so loud in his own ears he felt sure Romeo must hear it if he came too close.

He sensed a disturbance in the air above his face; it was all the warning he had before Romeo laid his hand lightly upon the silk scarf wrapped around his throat.

“I am glad they dressed you with your scarf,” Romeo murmured. “You will never know how much I regret ending your life. I have prayed every night since that day that your soul is finally at rest. I can't ask for forgiveness; I don't deserve it.” The hand trailed lower to touch the double silver chain and then rested upon the locket.

It took every ounce of Tybalt's self-control not to scream and slap his hand away as he felt Romeo carefully lift the locket free, but he could only lie there, as still as Juliet, and listen as Romeo's fingers fumbled with the catch and then the soft click of the locket springing open in his hand.

There was a sharply-indrawn breath as of shock, and then a hoarse, ragged sob was torn from Romeo's throat. “Oh God. Oh God, strike me dead – you loved her! You loved her too!”

Tybalt held himself perfectly still, scarcely even breathing as to his surprise, Romeo wept over his body. “Oh God, how could I have been so blind? She was so beautiful, so gentle, so perfect – how could you not love her? You must have. It's all so clear now. Oh, what a fool I've been. We could have been closer than brothers, and I've destroyed it all!”

Tybalt felt hot, wet tears fall upon his face, and then Romeo flung his arms across Tybalt's body and buried his face in Tybalt's long dark hair, sobbing brokenly. Tybalt held his breath, and was surprised to find tears squeezing out from beneath his closed eyes unbidden. He was thankful for Romeo's tears upon his face to hide his own, and then immediately felt ashamed.

Romeo straightened, his breaths still coming shuddering in his paroxysms of grief, and lifted up the locket once more. “I understand so much now,” whispered Romeo. “Yet how could I have given her up, even knowing?” There was a pause as he sniffed. “Wait. What's this?” he said wonderingly.

_Oh. Hell. Mercutio's picture._

“I... I don't understand. Mercutio?” Tybalt could practically _feel_ Romeo's eyes upon him. “You... you loved... Mercutio?” There was a stunned silence; Tybalt dared to draw a very slow, silent breath.

“That was why you didn't fight back. That was why you let me kill you,” Romeo said quietly. “You'd killed him. You didn't mean to, did you? I got between you. That blow... it was never meant to kill, only hurt him. And I...” Romeo gave a horrified gasp. “Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. It was me. It was me.”

Tybalt was stunned. Romeo blamed himself for Mercutio's death. His mind reeled; Romeo held no bitterness towards him – he, who had only ever sneered, offered insult, derided and hated this boy; and yet Romeo had wept over his body almost as bitterly as he had over Juliet. And now he believed he had killed Mercutio as well. His heart ached in his breast.

He felt Romeo lay the locket upon his breast once more, then move away.

“it doesn't matter now,” said Romeo brokenly; from the sounds of it, he was climbing up onto the bier next to Juliet. “None of this matters. Soon we will all be together again. Wait for me, Tybalt; wait with Mercutio and our Juliet. I'm coming, Juliet. I love you. I'm coming.”

There was a rustling of cloth and then the sound of the top of a medicine bottle being twisted off, the click startlingly loud in the small chamber. “Wait for me, love, I'm coming,” Romeo murmured again.

“ _No!_ ” Tybalt managed to scream hoarsely as he sat up, one hand reaching out towards Romeo to stop him.

Romeo froze, a small bottle held to his lips, about to swallow. His eyes were fixed upon Tybalt in utter disbelief.

“Don't do it!” Tybalt managed to rasp. “She's not dead!” 

The bottle fell from Romeo's hand as he stared at Tybalt dumbfounded. After a moment he managed to find his voice. “Nor are you.”

Tybalt tried to speak but his throat was raw from the effort to call out; he clutched his throat as he doubled over coughing.

Romeo scrambled from the bier and hurried to Tybalt's side, helping him up as Tybalt tried to catch his breath. “I was sure you were dead!” he exclaimed.

“Nearly was,” Tybalt managed to gasp. “Not sure... won't be soon,” he added as he felt a sharp stab of pain through his chest. It felt like something had torn open through his sudden exertion. “Juliet... not dead... wake soon,” he added.

“God's mercy, man, you nearly finished me off with that yell,” exclaimed Benvolio as he stumbled into the chamber. 

“I think he nearly finished himself off – and me too,” replied Romeo as he helped Tybalt to stand. “Where the hell were you?”

“In the car with Father Lawrence,” replied Benvolio. “I never saw you – you must have slipped past us very quietly.” He looked at Tybalt. “You look like shit,” he added.

“Feel like it,” Tybalt confessed in a whisper.

Romeo was about to speak but at that moment Juliet sighed. His eyes widened; still with an arm around Tybalt's waist, he practically dragged the taller man with him to her side. He let go of Tybalt to gently cradle Juliet in his arms as she slowly woke up; Tybalt leaned on the edge of the bier. His legs felt weak and he wasn't sure how much longer they would keep him up.

Juliet gave a low, glad cry and flung her arms around Romeo's neck. “Oh love, it worked – it worked!” she cried.

Then she saw Tybalt and screamed.

Tybalt winced as the shrill sound reverberated in the small chamber.

“Christ, Juliet, knock it off for God's sakes!” protested Benvolio as he flinched. “Yes, we're all alive, we get it, it's a shock!"

“Benvolio!” growled Romeo as Tybalt glared at him balefully before both turned to Juliet. 

“Hush, my sweet, he's alive – we're all alive. I don't know quote how or why, but we're here, you're safe,” said Romeo soothingly as she shuddered, gasping.

“Tybalt? Is it really you?” she whimpered. She reached a hand out to him; he took it with a trembling hand.

“I'm here,” he said quietly.

“I hate to break up the touching family reunion,” Benvolio broke in, “but Juliet's scream will bring the guards down on us any minute. We need to get out of here fast, or we'll have rather more explaining to do than I care for.”

Romeo nodded and lifted Juliet down from the bier; the three of them made for the exit.

Tybalt turned away and leaned against the edge of the bier tiredly.

“Come on Tybalt!” called Romeo.

Tybalt didn't move but remained where he was, staring at the floor.

“Tybalt?” asked Juliet as she gently took his hand. “What's wrong?”

“You go,” he managed to reply quietly. “You can start a new life together. Romeo's a free man; I'm still alive, so he's no longer under a sentence of death. I will remain here.”

“I... don't understand,” she said slowly. He smiled at her sadly.

“I killed Mercutio, don't you see? There's nothing left for me here. Go. Let the Prince hang me; it's no more than I deserve. You deserve happiness, my love. Go. Be free.”

“But... no, not without -” She broke off and stared at him as what he had called her sank in, and then her eyes widened.

Tybalt nodded. “I love you, Juliet. I always have. But you have Romeo, who loves you – as much, perhaps even more than I do. Go with him. I'm just glad I got to look upon you one last time and say goodbye.”

“But... Tybalt, you have to come too!” she begged him, tears springing unbidden to her eyes. “Romeo? Benvolio, tell him, he has to come too!”

Tybalt shook his head. “No. My place is here. Let me die in Romeo's stead. It's a price I will gladly pay for Mercutio's life.” He stood and turned to face her; sliding his fingers into her hair, he bent to kiss her one last time.

“But... Mercutio's not dead,” said Benvolio in puzzlement.

Tybalt lifted his head. “What?”

“Mercutio's not dead,” repeated Benvolio. “I... thought you knew? Didn't Father Lawrence tell you?”

There was a roaring sound in Tybalt's ears as his heart stopped. Distantly he heard Juliet's voice.

“Tybalt? He's gone white as a sheet – Tybalt, are you alright? Romeo, catch him!”

Strong arms were about him, catching him as his legs gave way; his mind was blank with shock. 

_Mercutio was alive._

Tybalt fainted.


	31. Chapter 31

Valentine was sprawled on the floor with his nose in a book as Mercutio returned to his room.

“There's a perfectly good chair not two feet away from you,” observed Mercutio as he leaned against the door frame. “Did you get tired of your mirror games?” he asked as he tilted his head to one side. “Or did you just get so lost in your book you forgot?”

“I didn't think you'd be in the mood for them,” shrugged Valentine as he set the book aside and stood up. “What's wrong? You look awful.”

Mercutio shook his head as he took a couple of steps into the room. “Something... happened. I don't quite remember what. I think there was a fight.”

Valentine looked worried as he came closer; he laid his hands on Mercutio's shoulder and stared into his face. “You're pale. Come and sit down,” he suggested. He tugged his brother over to the bed and sat down, tugging Mercutio after him. Mercutio shrugged then let himself be pulled down, dropping heavily onto the edge of the bad.

“Come on, tell little brother all about it,” said Valentine as he shifted around behind Mercutio, his legs splayed either side as he started to tug off Mercutio's jacket. He laid his hands on Mercutio's shoulders and began to knead them. “Christ, your back is a mass of knots, Mercutio.”

Mercutio groaned appreciatively as Valentine set to work on his back. “God, I'd forgotten how good that feels. Even if your hands _are_ like ice.”

“So, what happened?” asked Valentine, his fingers expertly seeking out the knots and working at them until they began to loosen.

“Just a little lower – to the left – ah, God, that feels good.” Mercutio let his head droop and sighed. “Romeo's been an absolute idiot.”

“Again? What's he done this time? Let me guess – not Rosaline?”

“Oh, no, Rosaline is _so_ last week. No, bad enough he was mooning over Capulet's niece, but he just _had_ to go one better.”

“If you tell me he's been shagging Tybalt I shall laugh for a month,” said Valentine; Mercutio could hear the smirk in his voice. Mercutio laughed.

“Hell no! Though....” he paused speculatively as he pondered the prospects of a threesome with himself, Tybalt and Romeo. He grinned, enjoying that little private fantasy. “Tybalt would have an absolute fit at the very idea,” he sighed.

Valentine snorted. “I know you were thinking about it just then, so don't try denying it.”

“Oh, I won't, I just – Jesus _fuck_ , Val, that hurts!” he suddenly yelled as Valentine's fingers unerringly found a particularly painful knot.

“I know, just hold still,” said Valentine soothingly as he worked his thumbs firmly into the knot of muscle. Mercutio groaned as the snarl of muscle unknotted under his brother's hands. Valentine smoothed his fingers over Mercutio's back apologetically then wrapped his arms around his brother's waist and rested his head against Mercutio's back. “Sorry,” he said contritely. “Better now?”

Mercutio nodded. “It's been too long,” he said.

Valentine shifted back on the bed then tugged on Mercutio's shoulders. “Come on, lie back and tell Valentine all about it. Spill; who's Romeo gone after this time?”

Mercutio obediently lay back with his head in Valentine's lap. “Capulet's daughter Juliet, no less.”

Valentine had been idly stroking Mercutio's hair with one hand as he stared down at his older brother; he paused. “Seriously?” he snorted. “Because _that's_ going to go down well.”

“I know, right?” agreed Mercutio. “I couldn't believe it. This is going to cause bloodshed, I can feel it.”

“Mercutio.” Valentine stared down at his brother. “Don't get involved.”

“Val -”

“Come on, Mercutio, I _know_ you. Is that what this fight was about?”

“A bit,” Mercutio admitted. “Tybalt's absolutely furious.”

“Is he still pissed at you for my little game?” Valentine's voice was innocent. Mercutio glared up at him.

“That was _your_ fault!” he said, waggling a finger up at his younger brother. Valentine bent over and touched his nose to the end of Mercutio's finger. “Hey, cut that out,” groused Mercutio.

Valentine merely grinned and did it again. Mercutio couldn't resist a grin. “You're not a cat!”

“No, but I made you smile,” grinned Valentine back at him. “You've been too grumpy lately.”

Mercutio was quiet for a while; Valentine sat there, leaning his weight back on one arm whilst he resumed stroking Mercutio's hair idly.

“It's worse than just Romeo kissing Juliet. He married her. In secret.”

Valentine's hand slowed. “Oh dear God.”

“Yeah.”

“Tybalt's going to kill him.”

“Yeah,” Mercutio repeated.

Valentine shifted around so Mercutio's head was resting on his thigh as he curled round. “No wonder you're so worried. And why you were so angry with me over Tybalt.”

Mercutio sighed. “I think... I think Tybalt and I had a fight.”

Valentine gently stroked his forehead. “Don't think about it. You're here now.”

“I've missed this,” said Mercutio quietly. “I've missed _you_.”

“I've missed you too,” said Valentine softly. “I've been lonely without you. I'm so glad you're here now though.”

Mercutio reached up for Valentine's hand and gave it a squeeze.

They lay in companionable silence for a while, but Mercutio couldn't shake a growing feeling that something wasn't quite right.

“No, it isn't,” said Valentine softly.

“You always were good at guessing what I was thinking,” mused Mercutio.

“You were always terrible at keeping things from me,” replied Valentine, and smiled sadly.

“Valentine... you're not... supposed to be here, are you?” said Mercutio quietly.

“No, it's you who isn't supposed to be here, Mercutio,” replied Valentine, his voice equally soft.

Mercutio turned his head to gaze into his brother's eyes, so blue – like the azure of the sea on a summer's day. Suddenly Mercutio felt cold.

“I'm scared, Valentine,” he confessed.

“Don't be,” said Valentine gently.

Suddenly Mercutio felt a hot, burning pain in his chest and he clutched at it with his hands. “What's happening to me, Val?” he whispered.

“Shh, it's OK, it's going to be alright,” whispered Valentine soothingly, stroking his hair as Mercutio fought for breath.

“What's happening?” Mercutio was starting to panic.

“It's time to go back,” Val whispered.

“Go back? Where?”

Valentine squeezed his fingers lightly. “Don't be afraid,” he murmured.

“Go where?!” Mercutio cried. “Val, I don't want to go, I don't-”

Mercutio opened his eyes.

He stared at the stark white ceiling and felt tears spring into his eyes. “I don't want to go back,” he whispered hoarsely.

He heard someone sigh restlessly, a half-murmured, incoherent sound of query as the hand holding his squeezed slightly in reassurance then went slack again. The hand was cold, but the fingers were too long to be Valentine.

Mercutio rolled his head on the pillow. Tybalt sat in a hard plastic chair beside his bed, his top half slumped onto the bed, his face turned towards Mercutio. He was asleep, his face pale with dark circles beneath his eyes. One hand – the right one, swathed in a bandage – was pillowed beneath his head whilst the other was stretched out to Mercutio, the pale fingers loosely curled around Mercutio's hand.

Mercutio stared at him in dull surprise. “Tybalt?” He didn't recognise his own voice; hoarse, yet weak. He squeezed Tybalt's hand slightly when there was no response.

Tybalt murmured something drowsily, his fingers tightening around Mercutio's hand as a small frown wrinkled his brow. His eyelids fluttered briefly.

Mercutio squeezed Tybalt's hand harder. “Tybalt.”

Tybalt opened his eyes slowly; they were sleep-glazed, and he sat up slowly with a wince. He rubbed his eyes tiredly with the heel of his bandaged hand then offered Mercutio a tentative, hesitant smile as if uncertain of its reception.

Mercutio swallowed hard as he stared at him. “Come to finish what you started?” he asked, and was rewarded by the look of pain that washed over Tybalt's face as he lowered his head, flushing a dark red in shame as he started to pull his hand away from Mercutio.

“No,” he whispered hoarsely. “I... I had to see for myself. They said you were alive but... I had to see.” He turned his face away and drew a shuddering breath.

“Are you... crying?” asked Mercutio incredulously.

“No,” whispered Tybalt stubbornly as he scrubbed at his face with his bandaged hand.

“Liar.”

“Bastard. I didn't come here to fight you,” Tybalt hissed.

“Then why did you come?” snapped Mercutio. “And stop whispering, dammit.”

“I _can't_!” Tybalt rasped as he turned and fixed Mercutio with a glare. He reached up to the black silk scarf and yanked it down to show the bandage beneath.

Mercutio stared at it. “What happened.” His voice was flat.

“Romeo got between us.”

“Yes, I remember that part. And you stabbed me.”

“I never meant to,” whispered Tybalt, his eyes pained. “He knocked my arm; I couldn't see where my blow landed. It wasn't supposed to be a killing blow.”

Mercutio remembered the wide-eyed look of horror on Tybalt's face as he had staggered back, Tybalt's eyes flicking down to the knife protruding from Mercutio's chest then back up to his face.

“That... doesn't explain your throat,” said Mercutio slowly.

“Romeo thought you were dead. He attacked me. He slashed my throat and left me for dead.” He lowered his head, looking anywhere but at Mercutio.

“You're a better fighter than him,” said Mercutio quietly. Tybalt shrugged.

“Tybalt, why are you here?”

Tybalt lifted his head slowly to finally look at Mercutio. “To say sorry. To see you one last time.” He slowly got to his feet, the effort evidently causing him pain as he pressed a hand to his ribs just below his chest. Mercutio stared, only just noticing the damp gleam of the dark cotton.

“I'm sorry. I can't undo what I did. But I regret it.” Tybalt bowed his head. “I won't trouble you any more.” He turned to go.

“Tybalt.”

Tybalt turned back slowly.

“You're bleeding,” said Mercutio quietly.

“He thought I'd killed you. So did I.”

“You... let him do it. Didn't you? Why?”

Tybalt stood there, swaying slightly as he shrugged. “I didn't exactly _let_ him.”

“But you didn't stop him either.” Mercutio stared at him. “You're a bloody idiot. And a stubborn one too. For God's sakes, sit down before you fall down.”

Tybalt looked for a moment as if he were going to argue, then sighed wordlessly and dropped heavily into the chair.

“You really are the most -”

“Why are we fighting?” whispered Tybalt plaintively.

“I don't know,” said Mercutio quietly. “Habit I suppose.”

Tybalt nodded dully then looked down at his chest, lifting his hand away and looking at his bloodied palm.

“Are you going to just sit there and _bleed_ at me?” asked Mercutio, a touch acerbically as he arched an eyebrow. Tybalt gave him a pointed look.

Mercutio sighed then reached up above his head and hit the red emergency button on the wall.

“Tybalt Capulet, you are an utter ass. God knows why I put up with you.” He grinned.

“You don't have to,” said Tybalt as several nurses and a couple of doctors burst into the room and swarmed towards the bed.

“Not me, him,” Mercutio shooed them towards Tybalt. “I don't have to, that's true, and God knows why I should want to after all that you've done, but then again I'm not exactly blameless either,” he continued as the nurses efficiently stripped Tybalt's shirt off to reveal the blood-stained bandages.

“Strangely enough I still seem to give a damn about you and – dear God, that's quite a lot of blood -”

“Mercutio, do you ever shut up?” whispered Tybalt, but he was smiling faintly as he lifted his arms to allow the nurses to set to work. He had gone very pale, his forehead beaded with sweat.

“Rarely, but you ought to know that by now. But seriously, that looks nasty. Are you going to faint?”

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” murmured Tybalt.

“No, actually, because as I was saying, I still seem to care about you and I'd rather you didn't die on me before you have a chance to make things up to me for stabbing me.”

One of the nurses kept darting annoyed glances at Mercutio as he rambled on at Tybalt. “I think we ought to move him to a private room, Doctor,” she said as she looked up at the doctor who was inspecting the wound. One of the other nurses had taken hold of Tybalt's wrist and was frowning as she checked his pulse.

“Don't you dare; I've not finished with him yet,” warned Mercutio. “Tybalt, don't you dare die on me.”

“Not planning on it,” Tybalt murmured as he closed his eyes. He slumped in his chair, his head dropping back as his arms went limp.

Mercutio struggled upright. “Is he -”

“Just fainted,” replied one of the other nurses.

“Oh good. I'm going to tease him about this later,” grinned Mercutio.


	32. Chapter 32

Tybalt lay with his head on Mercutio's shoulder with his eyes closed. He and the others had been staying in seclusion at the palace for a week now; both he and Mercutio had been declared out of immediate danger a few days ago but cautioned not to overtax themselves (much to Mercutio's disappointment the doctor had stated to him quite explicitly that yes, that included sex; Tybalt had been privately relieved, as sex was the last thing he felt capable of right now). Tybalt had spent most of those days sleeping or dozing in Mercutio's bed, either with Mercutio curled around him or else sitting nearby with his laptop. 

He knew the others were nearby in the palace; Romeo and Juliet had been given a suite quite close to Mercutio's rooms. Technically Tybalt had his own rooms as well, but he'd spent the first night out of the medical centre in Mercutio's room and had stayed there ever since.

Tybalt didn't yet feel entirely at ease around Romeo. There was a sort of unspoken truce between them, but Tybalt was finding it hard to change the conditioning of a lifetime. He did try, for Juliet's sake – and Romeo himself seemed to be willing to leave the past behind; but though the couple spent a lot of time visiting Mercutio, Tybalt could only tolerate so long before retreating back to the bedroom. It didn't help that he was still unable to talk in much over a whisper, and even that taxed him if he tried to converse for too long. Though the scar across his throat was healing well, according to the Prince's physicians, his voice was not, and increasingly he had spoken less and less save occasional whispers to Mercutio and once or twice to Juliet. 

He had been lightly dozing on Mercutio whilst the red-haired man amused himself on his laptop, one arm comfortingly around Tybalt. He woke when the Prince had entered with Benvolio, Romeo and Juliet in tow but kept his eyes closed; he was too comfortable to move, and besides being awake meant conversation. He was fairly certain Mercutio knew he was awake, but the others had assumed he was asleep and left him undisturbed. 

Mercutio looked entirely too much like the cat that had got the cream for someone who had been at death's door a week ago. Prince Escalus folded his arms and regarded them all sombrely.

Benvolio was leaning against the wall beside the bed, casting occasional disbelieving looks at Mercutio and shaking his head.

Romeo and Juliet were sitting together in the armchair, Juliet on Romeo's lap with her arms around his neck. Juliet kept stealing fond glances at her sleeping cousin, whilst Romeo just looked shellshocked.

“I think they look sweet,” she murmured to Romeo, then closed her mouth hurriedly when the prince cast an acerbic glance in her direction.

“Have you any idea just what you have all unleashed in Verona between you?” asked Escalus coldly. “I should have the lot of you executed by rights. Yes, even you, Mercutio,” he added as Mercutio's face darkened and his arms tightened around Tybalt. “I said, did I not, that any who disturbed the peace in Verona would be put to death – even you?”

“But no-one's dead!” protested Juliet. “Mercutio and Tybalt were hurt, yes – but look at them now! Mercutio's alive, which means Tybalt shouldn't hang. And Tybalt's alive, so you _can't_ demand Romeo's life!”

“Can't I?” said Escalus, his voice dangerously quiet. Juliet's eyes widened and she clung tighter to Romeo.

“Uncle,” said Mercutio quietly. “No-one knows we're alive. No-one needs to know.”

“I wish it were that simple,” replied Escalus heavily. “There is a tenuous peace in Verona for the moment, but the Capulets will seize any chance to be revenged upon the Montagues. They have lost both their daughter and their nephew, and though they are grieving now it will not be long before their hearts turn to vengeance. And Lady Montague petitions me daily to forgive and pardon her son.” He shook his head slowly. “And yet I cannot, even though he sits here before me, innocent, because to do so would incite the Capulets against me.”

“And your cousin Paris is just waiting in the wings for a chance to seize your power,” remarked Mercutio sombrely. Escalus nodded.

“I fear so, though I have no direct proof,” replied Escalus. 

Tybalt stirred and mumbled something.

“What was that?” asked Mercutio quietly. Tybalt opened his eyes and whispered again quietly.

“I was there when they talked. They didn't see me, but I heard enough.” Mercutio's eyes widened slightly.

“Tybalt has proof,” he said quietly. “He overheard Paris and his aunt talking.”

“Tybalt? Is this true?” asked Escalus as he approached the bed. Tybalt shifted slightly to face the Prince and nodded. He was aware of everyone's eyes on him as he kept his gaze on the Prince.

“Will you testify? Against your aunt?”

Tybalt hesitated, then slowly nodded again.

“Uncle, we both know how ruthless Lady Capulet is,” said Mercutio seriously. “Tybalt was only of use to her whilst Juliet was unwed and under her roof. She's lost her daughter, and we're pretty certain she was the one behind the warehouse attack -”

Juliet sat up straight and stared at them horrified. “No, you're mistaken – Mother would never do anything to hurt Tybalt! She adored him!”

Tybalt sat up slowly and stared at Juliet, holding out a hand towards her. With a glance to Romeo, she got up and approached the bed, circling around it to sit upon the edge and take Tybalt's hand in hers.

“Please tell me it's not true, Tybalt,” she asked him softly. He squeezed her hand and nodded slowly, his eyes dark and sad. 

“I'm sorry,” he rasped quietly.

She gave a strange little hiccup then curled up against his chest, crying softly.

Tybalt and Romeo exchanged a wordless glance, then Tybalt wrapped his arms around her and held her close, gently stroking her hair soothingly. Mercutio rested one hand on Tybalt's shoulder comfortingly as Romeo got up and walked over to sit on the bed next to his wife and brother-in-law.

Benvolio stared at the tableau and scratched his head. “I hope you all realise just how weird this all looks,” he said ruefully. “A week ago I watched Tybalt and Mercutio doing their damned best to kill each other, then Romeo supposedly kill Tybalt – and now here you all are practically in bed together.”

Mercutio smirked then patted the bed on his other side. “Room for one more!” he grinned. 

“Oh no, no thank you!” said Benvolio hastily. “I'm quite happy where I am. Over here. Honest.”

The Prince cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, Juliet, but Mercutio is right. We have good reason to fear that were your cousin to testify against your mother and Paris, there would be another assassination attempt. In his current state he would be far less likely to survive than the last time.”

Tybalt glanced up with a rebellious look in his eyes; though his face was turned away from Mercutio, the red-head's hand tightened on his shoulder. “I know what you're thinking; stop it,” he said with a smirk. Tybalt frowned.

“Damn, I wish you'd stop doing that,” muttered Benvolio. “Shades of Valentine all over again.”

Mercutio's face darkened. “Tybalt is _nothing_ like Valentine.”

“Benvolio,” said the Prince warningly as Tybalt glanced round, frowning. He looked to Mercutio who shook his head. “I'll explain later,” he murmured.

“You haven't told him?” asked Escalus.

“Told me what?” whispered Tybalt, feeling confused. He'd noticed no sign of Valentine since arriving at the palace but he'd simply assumed he was keeping away. He and Mercutio had talked quietly, if briefly about his brother; when Mercutio had shown him the photo on the desk next to his laptop, Tybalt had understood. Valentine and Mercutio were so alike they could have passed for twins. It certainly explained the nocturnal visitation on the last occasion he had stayed in the palace. He wasn't sure why Valentine seemed to have such antipathy for him, but he was glad the younger nephew of the prince had made no further efforts to get rid of him.

“Hush. It's... complicated,” said Mercutio uncomfortably.

Escalus sighed. “Back to the question at hand, which remains: what am I going to do with you all? I cannot have you remain in Verona; if even one of you is seen outside the palace then there will be an uproar and doubtless open warfare between Montagues and Capulets. Yet you cannot remain in the palace forever; I cannot trust that the Capulets do not already have spies amongst my staff. Very few people know you are here at present, but the longer you stay the greater the danger.”

“What about Mantua?” asked Romeo. Tybalt shook his head as Juliet straightened.

“No, Father has business partners in Mantua and Tybalt has accompanied him there often. There's too great a risk that he or I might be recognised,” she said slowly. Tybalt nodded. 

“You need to go somewhere where you are completely unknown,” said the Prince slowly. “I am of a mind to split you up; if you are all together there's a far greater chance of discovery.”

Juliet's hand reached for Romeo and he took it, even as Tybalt looked stricken.

“I will not be parted from my wife,” said Romeo firmly.

“And you can't part Tybalt from his cousin,” added Mercutio. “And where he goes, I go.” Tybalt shot him a grateful look; Mercutio gave him a small smile.

“And what about me?” asked Benvolio. 

“Wherever they go, I will need someone trusted to act as a go-between until we have set up secure communications,” replied Escalus. He tapped his chin thoughtfully. 

“I will begin making arrangements; in the meantime, I have had this wing of the palace closed off and staffed only by those servants and guards I feel are absolutely trustworthy. To all intents and purposes, as far as the outside world is concerned I am still mourning the death of my only heir and nephew; it would not seem so strange to seal off his rooms. It would not be the first time, after all,” he added heavily. “You may go where you choose in this wing but do not stray outside save to the small enclosed garden. The walls are high, and it is only overlooked by this wing of the palace. I shall have a detachment of my own personal guards stationed outside to ensure your privacy.”

 _Only heir? Wouldn't Valentine become his heir on Mercutio's supposed death?_ He turned to Mercutio with a questioning look, but Mercutio set a finger to his lips and shook his head briefly.

“Later,” he whispered softly.

Tybalt frowned but let it lie.

Benvolio cleared his throat noisily. Escalus glanced at him.

“I have not forgotten you, young Montague,” he said sternly. “Father Lawrence has requested an assistant; you have been of use to him recently. It would not draw undue attention if you were to continue assisting him, and in the course of your duties you would be sent to the palace frequently.” He turned and stared meaningfully at the others, then back at Benvolio, who looked relieved.

“And of course, whilst here it would be only natural that you would visit the small garden of rest to pay your respects to your departed friend.” Escalus nodded towards Mercutio.

“Uncle, I'll need to leave this wing of the palace at least once,” said Mercutio. “And... I think I should take Tybalt with me.” He sighed heavily.

Tybalt turned and stared at Mercutio; even Juliet was looking confused, though both Romeo and Benvolio were exchanging a look.

Escalus sighed. “Mercutio, you have taken Tybalt into your bed and seem quite content to keep him there. I think you owe him the truth after what has happened to him at Valentine's hands.”

There was the merest brief pause just before Escalus spoke Valentine's name, but Tybalt caught it. He stared at Mercutio. “What's going on?” he managed hoarsely.

Escalus nodded. “Let us go now.”

“Go where?” Tybalt could feel a dark foreboding creeping over him.

“What's going on?” asked Juliet. 

Mercutio glanced to Romeo and then Benvolio. “You may tell her. Only... not here. I... need to show Tybalt.”

“Show me _what??_ ” Tybalt demanded tersely, his voice rising then cracking painfully. He put his hand to his throat and winced. Juliet leapt up and fetched a glass of water as he began to cough; he took it with a nod of thanks and sipped it slowly.

Mercutio slid from the bed and hunted down a pair of trainers before pulling them on, then fetched Tybalt's boots. Though Mercutio had a tendency to throw his shoes into random corners without bothering to see where they fell, Tybalt had noticed he always took care of Tybalt's clothing. That first day, Tybalt had taken off his boots on entering the bedroom and carefully set them down beside the wardrobe, and Mercutio since then had always made sure he put them in the same spot.

Tybalt swung his legs over the side of the bed then nodded his thanks as Mercutio crouched to help him put his boots on. Though the burns on his hand were healing well, his hand was still stiff.

“Come on,” said Mercutio quietly. “It's not far.”

Prince Escalus led the way; Mercutio walked beside Tybalt, his eyes on the floor. Tybalt didn't think he'd ever seen Mercutio this withdrawn and quiet before. It unnerved him more than the prospect of whatever he was about to be shown.

They descended down to the ground level, and then down through another door Tybalt had never noticed before, tucked in an alcove hidden slightly behind the spiral staircase that led up to Mercutio's rooms. It opened to reveal another staircase leading down. The air was cooler down here.

Mercutio spoke only once, to warn Tybalt of a chipped step; he was otherwise silent. Had Tybalt had enough voice to speak, he would still have held his tongue in the face of the stony silence from the prince and Mercutio's uncharacteristic withdrawal.

They walked through a long passage; Tybalt was fairly certain they must be beneath the main palace itself by the time they came to another door. Prince Escalus unlocked it then stepped inside and flicked a switch. Soft light filled the room, and as Mercutio gestured for Tybalt to follow him, he realised they were standing in a crypt. He shivered, though the air was not cold.

Mercutio glanced back, and the corners of his mouth curved slightly into a small, sad smile.

“Don't be afraid,” he said softly as he took Tybalt's hand and led him further into the crypt.

Tybalt wanted to tell him he wasn't afraid, but held his tongue.

They walked past rows of caskets and large grey tombs, each with a small plaque bearing the name of its denizen. At the end of the long row, Mercutio paused and laid a hand on the top of a tomb. It looked paler and newer than the rest.

“Tybalt, meet my brother Valentine.”


	33. Chapter 33

Tybalt stared at the tomb, then at Mercutio incredulously.

“Tybalt?” He watched the tall raven-haired man turn back to the tomb, fingers slowly tracing over the name and the dates engraved on the brass plaque, then turned back to Mercutio again.

Tybalt's face was a blank smooth mask, his eyes staring flatly at Mercutio. As Mercutio stared at him, he realised he had absolutely no idea what Tybalt was thinking or feeling.

“He was fifteen when he died.” His voice was a rasping whisper, devoid of intonation.

Mercutio nodded slowly. “It was-”

“I don't want to know how,” Tybalt interrupted him. “It was a man who tried to garrotte me. Not a boy.”

“You've seen his photo,” said Mercutio. “Valentine could appear very mature for his age. As I did.”

Tybalt continued to stare at him. “You expect me to believe that a ghost tried to kill me.”

“I know it sounds far fetched,” sighed Mercutio. He took a step towards Tybalt, who stepped back, shaking his head.

“Tybalt -”

The tall Capulet slapped away Mercutio's hand as he reached tentatively for him then turned and strode swiftly away.

“Tybalt!” Mercutio took off after him, and Tybalt broke into a run.

“Oh just great,” muttered Mercutio. Just like Tybalt to take it the worst possible way. People accused Mercutio of being hot-headed but really, he had to hand it to Tybalt – he was far more impulsive and ruled by his emotions than Mercutio. He supposed he would go off and brood now. 

He glanced back at Valentine's tomb and laid a hand on it gently. No, Benvolio had been very wrong indeed. Tybalt was nothing like Valentine. No-one could ever be like Val. He wondered if anyone would ever truly understand him as his brother did.

He sighed then turned and headed back towards the door.

His uncle stood waiting with a frown on his face. “Tybalt didn't take it well.” 

Mercutio shrugged. “He'll come round. I'll talk to him later.”

“Mercutio, from the looks of him when he passed me I don't think leaving this would be a sensible idea.”

Mercutio scowled. “Tybalt always takes things out of hand,” he replied. “I'll talk to him when he calms down.”

He headed back up the stairs and headed towards his rooms. “Tybalt?” he called as he passed through the lounge. There was no answer but he didn't particularly expect one. He headed into the bedroom and glanced over towards the bed.

It was empty.

Mercutio shrugged and glanced around the room then frowned. An empty coathanger hung on the wardrobe door where Tybalt's long leather coat customarily resided. Mercutio took a second look around the room and noticed the bag with Tybalt's medication was also missing.

“Damn,” Mercutio said slowly. He guessed Tybalt must be really pissed with him; maybe he'd decided to move into the rooms set aside for him to get away from Mercutio for a while. 

He headed out of his rooms and wandered two doors down the corridor to the suite reserved for Tybalt. The door stood slightly open; Mercutio pushed it open and wandered in.

The lounge area had a similar layout to his own, except the plush carpet underneath was a deep blood red, and the settee was upholstered in a soft velvet a shade lighter than the carpet. Thick, heavy drapes swathed the windows; Mercutio had specifically suggested this suite to his uncle for Tybalt precisely because it matched closest to Tybalt's own rooms back at the Capulet house.

The door to the bedroom stood open; Mercutio wandered in.

“Tybalt?” 

The room was dimly lit by a thin shaft of sunlight that shone down through a small parting in the thick heavy curtains. Tybalt's coat was draped over the back of the chair set before the dresser, and the bag of medication had been tossed carelessly onto the dresser top. A small pill bottle lay on its side, a few pills scattered on the polished wooden surface. Mercutio crossed to the dresser and picked up the bottle, noticing it was almost empty, and frowned.

“He's not here.”

Out of habit, Mercutio glanced to the mirror in front of him rather than turning. Valentine was leaning against the door frame behind him, one arm wrapped around his torso whilst he worried at his thumb nail with his teeth. He was staring off to one side instead of at Mercutio.

“Any idea where he's gone?”

“No,” answered Valentine, not looking round. “But you probably ought to go after him.”

“Val?” said Mercutio slowly. His brother frowned and stared at his thumb nail.

“He wasn't ready, Mercutio.” He finally glanced round, his expression one of worry and apprehension. “Something's wrong. I have a bad feeling. I think you should go after him.”

“Since when did you give a rat's ass about Tybalt?” asked Mercutio testily. “Last I checked you hated him. Garrotting him wasn't exactly a sign of affection.”

Valentine shrugged. “You care about him.”

“You didn't let that stop you before,” Mercutio snorted.

“Maybe... maybe I was wrong,” said Valentine slowly, biting his thumbnail again.

“Val... what's wrong? I know you. You only do that when you're nervous about something.”

“Why aren't you looking for Tybalt?”

“Because maybe I think he's just gone off somewhere to have a good brood and I'm not too keen on being yelled at?” said Mercutio, growing irritated. “Why do you care if I go after him or not?”

“I told you, something's wrong,” insisted Valentine. “And if you weren't being such an ass you'd feel it too.”

Mercutio turned around and stared at his brother. “What are you, my conscience all of a sudden?” he demanded as he took a step towards his brother then paused.

“It looks like you need one,” observed Valentine, glancing at him sideways out of the corner of his eye. “Honestly, Mercutio, you can be such a dick at times. Stop being so stubborn and go find him.”

“Why?” demanded Mercutio belligerently. “What could be wrong?”

Valentine rolled his eyes then gestured at the pill bottle in Mercutio's hand. “How many pills are supposed to be in that bottle?”

“How the hell should I know?” asked Mercutio.

“You're being deliberately obtuse, Mercutio.” Valentine shook his head then snatched the bottle out of Mercutio's hand then held it up so Mercutio could see the label. “Look. 28 tablets. That's two weeks' worth, yes?”

“Your point?” said Mercutio slowly.

“Tybalt didn't bring any medication with him. This was given to him by your uncle's medical staff after he arrived here. So, this bottle was new only a week ago. How many tablets should be left?”

Mercutio suddenly realised what Valentine was getting at. “Shit.”

“Indeed,” said Valentine.

“But why should you care if he's taken too many? I thought you wanted him gone,” protested Mercutio.

“You ass!” said Valentine, throwing up his hands. “You really don't get it, do you?” He leaned closer. “ _I care because you care_.” He shook his head slowly as he handed the pill bottle back to Mercutio. “Something's wrong. Can't you feel it?”

Mercutio shook his head. “You were always better at picking up on things than I, Val,” he said as he shrugged. He shook the bottle, then went back to the dresser. He scooped up the spilled pills; he wasn't sure how many were missing, but Tybalt didn't seem the sort to take an overdose.

“You could too if you just paid attention,” said Valentine. He leaned against the door frame and glanced back towards the door to the hall, his hand creeping back towards his mouth again.

“Valentine. Seriously. What's changed?” asked Mercutio quietly. Valentine broke off from worrying at his nail to stare at the floor.

“Did you know he died twice?” he asked quietly. Mercutio blinked. Valentine glanced up at him and nodded. “It's true. I overheard Benvolio and Romeo talking about it. In the ambulance. His heart stopped twice; technically he was dead.” He lowered his eyes again, then pulled himself in against the door frame and jerked his head towards the hallway. “Go find him.”

Mercutio scowled, feeling an irrational flare of anger. “Go find him yourself,” he said surlily. If Tybalt didn't want to be found, he wasn't particularly sure he wanted to go find him; he doubted Tybalt would be feeling any more like talking for being cornered. Despite accusing Valentine of being his conscience, he'd been feeling a certain guilty pricking inside over the way Tybalt had reacted, and he didn't like it.

Valentine lifted his head and stared at his brother, his eyes narrowing, and then he pushed himself away from the door frame to stand in front of Mercutio. “Maybe I will,” he breathed quietly. “But you won't like it.” He lifted a hand towards Mercutio's face, and Mercutio flinched.

“No. Not after last time.” 

Valentine stared at him , his eyes the shade of ice, then slowly smiled. “Thought you might see things my way. Go find him before he does something stupid and impulsive.”

Mercutio shoved the pill bottle into his pocket and headed out into the hallway, glancing up then down the hall in indecision. He heard voices and turned towards the stairs as Romeo and Juliet rounded the corner and made their way up into the hallway. Romeo was carefully balancing a tray set with a pot of tea with cups and saucers, whilst Juliet had an armful of books from the small library downstairs. Benvolio was bringing up the rear, all three talking quietly until Juliet glanced up and saw Mercutio and fell silent.

Mercutio gave them a grin. Romeo and Benvolio exchanged looks whilst Juliet regarded him sombrely.

“They've told you then?” Mercutio said diffidently. Juliet glanced at Romeo and Mercutio nodded. “Ah, I see they have. So now you know.”

There was an awkward silence, then Juliet glanced again at Romeo then cleared her throat.

“How did Tybalt take it?” _Ah. Then they haven't seen him._

Mercutio kept the grin on his face. “How do you think he took it?”

Benvolio groaned. “Mercutio, what did you do?”

Mercutio spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I told him the truth. He went to think it over.”

“Think it over?” echoed Romeo. Juliet was staring hard at Mercutio; he wasn't sure he cared for the fierceness of her scrutiny. It reminded him a little too much of Tybalt. Perhaps it was the green eyes, or perhaps it was the familiar set of her jaw as she shifted her weight from one step to the other.

“Did you two argue again?” she asked.

“Not a cross word passed my lips, my lady, I can assure you of that,” replied Mercutio. _Could it be that Tybalt hadn't told her about the attack?_ He glanced at Romeo and Benvolio; he knew they were oblivious as to what had taken place the night of the Hallowe'en ball. The Capulets had kept the truth very quiet, but it hadn't occurred to him that Tybalt might have kept Juliet ignorant of what had transpired in those few minutes Tybalt was away from the dance floor.

“I think in light of what my uncle said, perhaps he felt he needed a little time alone,” Mercutio said lightly.

“Maybe,” said Juliet. “We've all been cooped up here for a week; I guess he must be feeling restless.” She turned to Romeo. “Perhaps I should go find him.”

Benvolio was giving Mercutio a dubious look that Mercutio wasn't entirely sure he cared for, and he wondered just what exactly he and Romeo had said to Juliet.

“I'm sure he'll be fine. You know how he likes his privacy,” said Mercutio.

“True,” said Juliet, doubtfully, then nodded. “We were about to take tea – would you like to join us?”

“Never touch the stuff,” replied Mercutio with a smile. “I prefer something stronger. I might join you in a while though.”

“Mercutio only drinks coffee,” Romeo explained to Juliet with a smile.

“That explains a great deal,” she replied with a smile. Mercutio raised an eyebrow, and she merely grinned at him.

“Oh? Oh ho! Romeo, I think I rather like your new wife. I look forward to making her acquaintance the better!”

“Mercutio, _no_ ,” said Benvolio firmly.

“Oh come now, Benvolio, I mean it in all innocence!”

“Mercutio, nothing about you is innocent,” laughed Romeo. “My dear, take anything he says with a pinch of salt. He's an incorrigible rascal and a complete scoundrel.”

Mercutio gave a bow with a flourish of his hand. Juliet chuckled.

“I am sure you will be the perfect gentleman, Mercutio; after all, you'll have my cousin as well as my husband to contend with if you are not.” She gave him a wink.

“Madam,” replied Mercutio as he bowed politely to her.

“Do tell Tybalt to come join us when he feels up to company; I worry about him spending so much time alone,” she asked Mercutio as she inclined her head towards him.

“I shall be sure to,” replied Mercutio as he resumed walking down the hall and headed down the stairs.

“What are you playing at?”

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Val,” said Mercutio as he rounded the turn at the bottom of the stairs and headed towards the conservatory.

“Why didn't you tell them about Tybalt?”

“No sense in worrying them,” replied Mercutio as he slid open the French doors and glanced around the conservatory. It was empty, but the doors into the garden stood ajar. “Are you coming to help me look?”

“You know I can't.” Valentine's voice followed him as he headed out into the garden.

“Suit yourself,” replied Mercutio. He didn't bother looking back.


	34. Chapter 34

The late afternoon sun was golden and hazy, the air close and humid. What little breeze there was brought little relief, though the gathering clouds on the horizon offered a tantalising promise of rain to come. 

Verona seemed unusually quiet, which in itself seemed ominous after the events of the past two weeks. Though there was no curfew in effect, the streets were steadily emptying as the evening slowly approached.

Tybalt felt self-conscious as he walked steadily towards more familiar streets, paranoid that at any moment someone would recognise him. But as he strode through the quiet piazzas and roads, it seemed almost as though he were in truth only one more ghost walking in a city of the once-living.

He was deliberately not trying to think about what Mercutio had shown him in the vault. Even so, as he walked his mind kept drifting back to memories; Mercutio standing in his room, watching him in the mirror with that strange, intent stare as though he had never seen Tybalt before. Like a cat, circling a strange cat and trying to decide if it belonged there or needed to be driven away. His hand stole to the black silk scarf wound around his scarred throat, remembering the feel of a wire garrotte biting into his flesh; with a low growl he deliberately wrested his thoughts away from pursuing that line of thought any further to focus on his current mission.

He felt odd, walking in borrowed clothes. It was perhaps fortunate he and Mercutio were similar in height, though the red t-shirt felt a little loose, as did the white shirt he'd pulled on over it. It had been cut for slightly broader shoulders than he possessed. But the people of Verona were used to seeing the nephew of Lady Capulet clad all in black. He felt out of place in these bright colours; the red seemed annoyingly garish. But no-one seemed to pay him any mind. He felt a little ridiculous with his loose hair pulled back away from his face by a pair of sunglasses atop his head, but he seemed to blend in with the other young men on the street, which was the whole point. It felt odd to not feel his long hair brushing his back; he'd hacked it shorter to just below his jaw. Not _short_ , precisely; but he no longer quite resembled Tybalt Capulet any more.

He'd worked fast, the plan formulating in his mind as he'd fled up the stairs two at a time, his long legs eating up the distance swiftly as he ducked into their – no, _Mercutio's_ rooms. He'd grabbed the first shirt and t-shirt his hands closed about in the wardrobe as he'd snatched at his coat then reached for the bag of medications. The sunglasses had been an afterthought. Then into his room, the medications thrown in the direction of the dressing table, coat over the back of the chair as he hastily changed, his own shirt thrown into the laundry hamper. Then out the door and racing down stairs.

He patted the pocket where he'd stashed a handful of his pills. He had no idea how long this mission would take, and he couldn't be certain of acquiring more. He was aware of the press of the hilt of the knife he'd slung beneath the shirt at his back. He'd taken it from the armoury before venturing into the garden in his stolen garb; he doubted anyone would notice it missing, but he felt better for being armed. He'd cut his hair beneath a willow tree in the garden with a pair of scissors taken from the kitchen on his way to the garden; he scattered the severed locks behind a bush and tossed the scissors away. How much time had elapsed? He had no idea. He didn't think he'd been spotted.

He'd slipped over the wall of the garden unseen; the guards outside had been stationed to watch for any incursion from outside. They had not been briefed to deal with an escape from within however. Tybalt was unimpressed by the standard of their training. He'd run down side streets and alleys until he was certain he hadn't been pursued before stepping out onto a main via and joining nonchalantly with the foot traffic heading in the direction of the arena.

He paused to buy calzone from a street vendor. The man was quite chatty and had rambled on to Tybalt about the unease in the city over the past few days. “Double murder in the Piazza Bra,” he nodded. “Been gang warfare on the streets the past few days – Montagues and Capulets at each other's throats, and the guard trying to keep the peace. Though it's been quiet today – too quiet, I dare say.”

Tybalt nodded and paid the man, who seemed not to mind that his customer said nothing. He seemed to appreciate an audience as he spoke about the goings-on at the Capulet place, how Lady Capulet had been in a great state and there was talk of strange visitors coming and going at all hours of the day and night. “Of course, she's lost not only her daughter but her nephew – terrible business that. Her own brother butchered by the Montagues and now his son as well. There'll be trouble, mark my words.” Tybalt made a curious noise, and the vendor – not needing much encouragement – was quite happily to ramble on about the expensive and lavish funeral given for Lady Capulet's nephew Tybalt and the mysterious visitors seen visiting since then. He idly wondered just who it was they laid in the Capulet tomb in his place.

As Tybalt stood listening attentively whilst finishing his food, he was privately amused by the much embellished account of his own death. To hear the man talk, half the women in Verona had been weeping and sighing over his corpse. He doubted he was as much missed as the man made out; he had had no friends to speak of, and the only women who might mourn him apart from his aunt and Juliet and perhaps his cousin Rosaline were the whores in the brothels he used to frequent – and they would miss his money far more than his cock, of that he was certain.

He nodded politely to the man before carrying on. The calzone had been greasy, the filling bland and too salty for his tastes, but it was food; and he'd at least picked up some interesting information – and that was well worth the price of the calzone and more. Getting into the house unseen would possibly prove more challenging than he'd thought. 

He grinned. He liked a challenge.

His feet took him towards the piazza; there were few people about at this time of the evening, which was unusual. He found himself drawn to the spot where he had fought Mercutio; had it really been over a week already? There was a dark mark on the pale stones; his footsteps slowed as he approached them.

There was a small rust-coloured stain to one side, but he had eyes only for the large dark mark upon the ground. He crouched down and reached towards the stain, his fingers brushing rust-coloured stone. He stared, stunned, at the size of the mark.

How had he survived that? It didn't seem possible. How much blood had he lost?

A bloody handprint upon the stone. He remembered trying to reach towards Mercutio, his limbs no longer co-operating. He found himself stretching one shaking hand out to lay it over the print, then snatched it back as if the stones themselves burned.

“Hey! Hey you!”

Tybalt leapt to his feet and fled the piazza, not looking back to see if he was being followed. He fled through streets filled with lengthening shadows, taking twists and turns until the distant sounds of half-imagined footsteps faded away.

He paused in the shade of an olive tree beside a wall to lean against the smooth grey trunk and catch his breath. He was alone on the street. He rested his head against the trunk of the tree, staring up into its twisting branches as he regained his composure. Seeing that blood stain had unexpectedly unnerved him. He could feel a twinge behind his eyes; a headache threatening to start. He blinked; the golden light of the lowly setting sun seemed too bright, and as he glanced down the street he could see strange afterimages as he blinked again. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes and rubbed them, trying to shake off the sensation of pressure building inside his head. The last thing he needed was another seizure. He felt in his pocket for one of his pills and dry-swallowed it in hopes of staving it off.

He turned and stared at the tree, frowning thoughtfully, then at the wall before glancing around to be certain he was alone. The street seemed familiar. Staring up into the tree branches, he took a few steps back then ran at the tree, placing one foot against the trunk and pushing himself upwards as he reached for a branch with one hand and the top of the wall with the other. His other foot braced against the wall and then he was up and scrambling atop the wall.

He'd been right; this was the outer wall of his uncle's estate. He could see the rear of the house from his perch on the wall; if he stared hard enough, he could just make out the balcony outside his own room.

He saw no sign of guards nearby. He dropped lightly down behind the bushes near the base of the wall then froze, alert and tense, listening for any sound that might indicate he'd been seen. He counted his heartbeats; at 200, he rose to a low crouch and made his way silently past the bushes and into the garden.

He kept to the shadows, darting from one to another, pausing each time he had to cross an open space to listen for sounds of alarm, but there were none. His lip curled derisively; his uncle's security men were being very lax. He made his way to the rose bushes beneath his balcony then pressed himself against the wall for a few minutes as he studied the windows that lined the rear of the house. Lights were beginning to come on in various rooms as dusk drew on; as he watched, a light in his aunt's room came on briefly, and he held his breath as the balcony doors opened and she stepped out for a moment.

He had an overwhelming impulsive urge to step out, to call to her, but he remained where he was, scarcely breathing as she glanced over the garden then turned away. He didn't breathe easy again until she had returned inside and the light in her room went out. He drew a shaky breath and realised his heart was racing.

He turned and swiftly climbed the wisteria to his balcony; swinging his legs over the stone balustrade he dropped down to a crouch, wary of being spotted as he made his way to the doors leading into his room. He pressed himself to the door and listened. The curtains had been drawn; could see nothing inside, and as he listened, he heard nothing. He carefully reached up and tried the door.

It swung open noiselessly, to his surprise. He carefully peered through the curtains.

His bedroom was dimly lit by two lamps, the door closed. As he slipped quietly into the room, a brief glance assured him that he was alone. He drew the curtain closed behind him and straightened.

He found a rucksack tucked in the back of his wardrobe and swiftly threw in clothes then made his way around the room, snatching up a few personal belongings. He shucked off the white shirt and stuffed it in on top of the other clothes in the rucksack, pulling on instead a black shirt; with the sun nearly setting, the white would stand out too much in the shadows. He grabbed an old velvet longline jacket and tugged it on then stuffed his wallet and cards in a pocket. He hoped briefly his account hadn't been frozen yet.

He selected a few favoured books then shoved his laptop into the rucksack which was getting rather full. He glanced around the room.

A soft miaow startled him; he glanced down, and the black cat blinked up at him, the golden eyes luminous in the dimly-lit room. He scooped up the cat and buried his face in the soft silky fur as Marlowe settled onto his shoulder and began to purr.

“I wish I could bring you with me,” he whispered hoarsely. The cat shifted on his shoulder and patted at his face. “I can't,” insisted Tybalt; the cat only butted his chin with its head. Tybalt set him down regretfully. Marlowe twined around his feet as he crossed the room then paused at the door, listening intently.

There was no sound from the hall outside; cautiously he eased the door slightly open with bated breath. He held still a moment then chanced a cautious glance down the hallway.

It was dark and empty, filled with only silence and old memories. He drew a deep breath then softly slipped out onto the dark carpet. Juliet's old room was next door to his own; thankfully the door was unlocked. He slipped inside, the cat a ghost at his heels, and he closed the door behind him.

He spent only a few brief moments inside; he snatched up the contents of Juliet's jewellery box, her tablet and its charger. He hurriedly grabbed a few changes of clothes for her, stuffing everything into a bag he found hanging just inside the wardrobe door, then made his way once around the room snathcing up a few trinkets and knicknacks he knew Juliet had been fond of.

He slipped back silently to his own room, stowing the bag of Juliet's things behind the balcony curtain before crossing the room to stare at the weapons on the wall.

Though there were many fine knives and blades hung there, his eyes were drawn to the sword hanging in the centre; less fancy than the rest, it was a plain twisted-hilt rapier, the black leather scabbard unadorned save for a small crest worked in green enamel and silver wire set near the tip of the scabbard, matched by another set into the pommel.

His father's sword.

He reached for it but froze as he heard the unmistakable click of a key in the lock of his door. He swiftly dropped to the floor and rolled beneath the bed as the door opened.

“I haven't been in this room since he died.” _His uncle's voice._ “I blame myself. The boy was too wrapped around his aunt's little finger. I should have taken a firmer hand with him from the start.”

“You weren't to know, sir. He was a good boy though.” _The nurse_. “Oh, I do miss them both, sir!”

“As do I,” replied Lord Capulet heavily. “I regret my harshness to him now. Without a son, Juliet should have inherited, but he should have been the son I never had. I wish....” 

Tybalt heard footsteps approach the bed and he held his breath.

“I wish I could tell him one last time how proud I was of him. And that I am so sorry.”

Tybalt stared stunned at the underside of his bed. He had always thought himself despised by his uncle. He was _proud_ of him?

“Sir, I speak perhaps as shouldn't – but perhaps you should come away. It does you no good to dwell on might-have-beens.”

“Am I then not allowed to mourn?” said Lord Capulet testily. “God knows his aunt doesn't. Does she think I don't know she cuckolds me beneath my very roof with that dog Paris? She cared nothing for the boy save what use he was to her.”

“It's not my place to say, sir,” said the nurse quietly.

“I know she has tried to have you sent away, Nurse. And truly, there is I suppose nothing left to keep you here. Tell me, what would you ask of me?”

“Don't send me away, sir, please! Not yet,” begged the nurse. “I have nowhere else to go, even if there is no longer any use to me. I've lost a child who was as dear to me as any daughter of my own flesh and blood; don't let me lose my home as well sir! Your wife -”

“My wife is a bitch whose heart is as cold as her cunt,” stated Lord Capulet icily. “The only reason I haven't divorced her is because of the scandal it would cause – and at least whilst she is under this roof I can keep an eye on her machinations. Don't think I don't know what she's up to with Paris.” His voice dropped. “And the only reason I turn a blind eye to the way she spreads her legs for Paris is because they will give me the means to put an end to those bloody Montagues for once and for all. They took Tybalt's life and because of them my daughter lies in a tomb, and I will not rest until Lady Montague finally understands the pain of losing a child.”

“Sir, you shouldn't tell me such things!” said the nurse in an anxious tone; Tybalt could picture her wringing her hands in distress. “I am but an old and useless woman, I shouldn't be privy to such plans!”

“Be at peace, nurse. I should not have brought you here, save I have one request of you.”

“Sir?”

“Take this key. It is the only one for Tybalt's room. Keep it safe, and let none enter save myself. Change nothing, but keep it dusted. Let it remain as it was. For his sake.”

“Sir... he's not coming back,” the nurse said quietly.

“I know. But indulge an old man in his fancy, Nurse. I should have had a son. He should have been _my_ son.”

He heard them leave the room, the key turn in the lock once more.

He lay under the bed for some time, trying to make sense of what he had heard. He felt the cat nosing at his hand; mechanically he lifted his hand slightly and Marlowe purred, rubbing his head against Tybalt's palm.

So it had taken his supposed death for his uncle to thaw towards him. He could feel only bitterness at the thought. He had always thought himself hated, barely tolerated; and _now_ the man showed remorse? _Now_ he would have claimed him as a son?

He rolled out from beneath the bed, feeling resentful and angry. It seemed Lady Capulet had put on a fine show of grief for the public but now he knew she had cared nothing for him save as a pawn for her machinations. Lord Capulet's remorse was too little, too late. There was nothing for him here; his place was by Juliet's side now. 

He took his father's sword down from the wall reverently and buckled it on about his waist before adjusting his jacket. He picked up the rucksack and slung it over his shoulder then headed for the door, grabbing the bag of Juliet's things as he went. 

As he swung a leg over the balustrade, a quiet miaow made him pause and look back. Marlowe had followed him out onto the balcony and was watching him curiously.

“Go back,” he whispered hoarsely. “You can't come with me.”

Marlowe leapt atop the stone balustrade as Tybalt began to climb quickly and carefully down the wisteria, the rucksack an unwieldy weight that threw off his balance slightly. There was a plaintive mew from above as he ran quickly on the balls of his feet across the path towards the nearest bushes. He didn't look back.

He made it to the wall without being seen and scaled swiftly to the top of the wall where he paused to catch his breath. He was startled by the sound of scrabbling paws and stared in surprise as Marlowe pulled himself up onto the bricks and stared at him reproachfully.

“What are you doing? Go back!” hissed Tybalt, making a shooing motion with his hands before turning and swinging himself into the branches of the olive tree and then dropping to the ground. He glanced up and down the street then headed off in the direction of the palace in lieu of anywhere else to go.

He paused at an ATM and tried his card. Thankfully it seemed no-one had thought to notify his bank yet of his supposed demise. Doubtless it was only a matter of time. He withdrew as much as he could and resolved to transfer the remainder into an old account set up under his old name as soon as possible.

There was a miaow at his feet and he glanced down then groaned. “Not you again! I _can't_ take you with me!”

The cat merely stared at him and he shook his head. He remembered just how stubborn Juliet could be on occasion when she wanted her own way, and sighed before he scooped up the cat in his arms. “Alright. I'll take you to Juliet,” he grumbled as the cat purred happily.

He made it back to the palace unseen, slipping in silently through a servant's entrance that had been left unguarded. He wondered where the guards had gone. The kitchen was deserted; he quietly slipped through, heading for the stairs up to the rooms above.

He paused at the top of the stairs; the hallway was strangely silent. Ordinarily he should be able to hear music and voices from Juliet and Romeo's room. His absence evidently must have been noticed. He frowned and headed for his rooms, which were as he'd left them. He set the cat down and headed into his bedroom. He unpacked the rucksack, then shrugged out of the velvet jacket, hanging it in the wardrobe. The laptop he set up on the desk, plugging it in to charge; the bag of Juliet's things he set carefully upon the chair by the desk.

His father's sword he hung close to hand on the bedpost near his pillow; the stolen knife he placed beneath the pillow before undressing then slipping into bed. He was exhausted from the day, and his head was beginning to ache again now the adrenaline was wearing off.

He felt the cat jump up onto the bed, circling a couple of times before curling up against Tybalt's side, purring softly. He fell asleep to the low, comforting rumble.

He was vaguely aware of his door opening at some point and a low exclamation of surprise followed by low voices.

“Where'd the bloody cat come from?” _Mercutio._ He kept his eyes closed.

“Marlowe!” A low, delighted murmur from Juliet.

“Hush, let him sleep. Time enough for questions in the morning.” Romeo's voice.

The door was drawn quietly closed, and he sank back into sleep once more.

 


	35. Chapter 35

Mercutio spent a restless night tossing and turning.

It galled him just how quickly he had grown accustomed to sharing the bed with someone who wasn't Valentine. His brother had usually spent more time in Mercutio's room than his own, and quite often he'd dropped off to sleep on Mercutio's bed long before Mercutio himself felt drowsy; rather than disturb him, Mercutio had usually just slipped into bed beside him and tugged the duvet up over the both of them.

He'd not shared a bed with anyone since Valentine died though, save for that one night when he'd stolen silently into Tybalt's room and found him passed out drunk, cradling an empty brandy bottle. Even then, he'd slipped away before dawn whilst Tybalt still slept.

But after barely a week in which Tybalt had shared his bed, he now felt keenly the lack. He rolled over once more to face the empty side of the bed. 

Tybalt had always taken the left side of the bed, furthest from the door; Mercutio invariably woke before him, so by taking that side it meant Mercutio wouldn't have to climb over him to leave the room when he (as invariably happened) woke before Tybalt. Mercutio had lain down on the right side of the bed out of pure habit, but now when he rolled over to his left there was an empty space where he'd grown accustomed to seeing Tybalt lying there, sleeping deeply. Mercutio was prone to waking often through the night; he'd found it strangely comforting to roll over and hear Tybalt's peaceful breathing and run his fingers lightly through the soft ebony-black hair.

But the only sound in the room was his own breathing, the pillow empty, the bed cold.

He gave up and sat up in the cold bed, glaring in the dark. He felt irrationally angry at Tybalt, even though he knew that was unfair of him. He'd actually been worried for him, damn him! Even if the reason for his absence had been entirely Mercutio's fault.

He'd hunted for Tybalt in the garden for over an hour; Romeo, Benvolio and Juliet had come out into the garden to find him finally, and they'd combed over the whole garden thoroughly. It wasn't that large; if Tybalt had been there then there was no way he could have remained hidden from all of them. It was Juliet who found the discarded hair and brought it to them; at that point they had to concede that, unlikely as it may seem, Tybalt had left the palace in spite of the Prince's orders.

“Tybalt never could abide being locked up for long,” Juliet said quietly as she stared at the locks of hair. “He gets restless easily.”

“If he's seen...!” said Benvolio, shaking his head.

“Benvolio, you're free to come and go as you please. You have to go look for him,” said Romeo.

Benvolio grumbled to himself but nodded. “I better get going before he gets himself into trouble,” he observed. “Send me a text if he shows up before I get back; no point in me traipsing all over Verona. Where's he most likely to go?”

That was the question, of course. Where would Tybalt have gone?

In the end Benvolio had decided to head for the Capulet estate then work his way back from there.

With nothing else to do but wait, they'd returned inside to Romeo and Juliet's lounge. Juliet had served them tea (coffee for Mercutio) and they'd passed the time in smalltalk. Mercutio had been too restless to sit idly chatting and had jumped up several times to pace the room, glancing frequently at his phone.

They all looked up expectantly when Benvolio wearily returned, their faces falling when it was obvious he was alone.

“No sign,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

Juliet leapt up and gently tugged him over to a chair, pressing a cup of coffee on him which he accepted with a nod of thanks.

They had argued then; Benvolio and Juliet in favour of telling the Prince, Mercutio and Romeo adamant that they not. It was late, the sun setting; a servant came to inform them dinner was to be served. They'd broken off to go down to the dining hall, but none of them had much of an appetite.

It was Juliet who noticed the door to Tybalt's rooms stood ajar. “Romeo... wasn't Tybalt's door closed earlier?” she wondered. She and Mercutio exchanged a glance, and then she ran towards the door. Mercutio, with his long legs, overtook her easily and reached the door of Tybalt's bedroom first. He opened it quietly.

Tybalt lay half-curled upon his side on the left-hand side of the bed. A large long-furred black cat was curled up against him, Tybalt's arm loosely draped around it. As the door opened, the cat lifted its head and blinked golden eyes at them all before yawning widely, showing small sharp white fangs.

“Where'd the bloody cat come from?” exclaimed Mercutio in a low voice as he stared at it in disbelief.

Juliet craned her head around the door and gave a little delighted squeal. “Marlowe!”

Romeo put his hand on Juliet's shoulder to restrain her. “Hush, let him sleep. Time enough for questions in the morning,” he suggested.

Mercutio would have lingered, but Romeo laid a hand on his shoulder as he steered Juliet away, and his lowered brow as he stared at Mercutio suggested he would brook no argument. Mercutio sighed then nodded.

He gave the sleeping Tybalt a last glance before he quietly withdrew, closing the door behind him as quietly as he could.

Now he stared into the darkness, his mind too unsettled for sleep and full of a thousand questions that only Tybalt could answer, and a nagging suspicion that he would not.

He threw off the covers and rose from the bed, hunting out a pair of black sweatpants and tugging them on. He pulled on the t-shirt he'd worn earlier then padded quietly out into the hallway and down to the door to Tybalt's rooms. He let himself in quietly and made his way across the dark lounge towards the bedroom door.

He opened the door as silently as he could and slipped inside, closing it gently behind him. He glanced around the room, his eyes adjusting to the faint light cast by a narrow moonbeam that gleamed silver through a gap in the heavy velvet drapes. It illuminated Tybalt's sleeping face, all sharp angles, black shadows and pale skin. He lay upon his back, head turned a little to one side, one hand resting upon his breast, the other fallen to his side, the fingers curled loosely over his palm. His breathing was slow, steady and even. The black silk scarf about his neck had come loose as he'd stirred in his sleep, slipping slightly; the scar across his throat stood out in stark relief, defined by black shadows against the smooth white skin of his throat.

Mercutio approached the bed on silent feet and stared down at Tybalt. He started as Tybalt spoke, not opening his eyes.

“So, are you Mercutio now, or is it Valentine?”

“Mercutio,” he answered quietly. “How did you know -”

“That it was you?” Tybalt opened his eyes and turned to stare at him, his eyes glittering in the moonlight. “I know you. I know your footsteps, the sound of your breathing. I knew it was you from the moment you opened the door.”

“I didn't mean to waken you.”

“You make it a habit of stealing into the rooms of your guests and watching them as they sleep?” Tybalt raised an eyebrow. “Do you watch Romeo?” He sat up slowly as his voice grew dangerously soft. “Do you watch my cousin?”

“No,” answered Mercutio truthfully. He stepped a little closer.

“Why are you here?”

“Where did you go?” Mercutio asked. He sat on the edge of the bed so their eyes were on a level; Tybalt arched an eyebrow but said nothing.

“We were worried for you,” Mercutio tried again.

“Were you.” Tybalt's voice was a flat whisper. “And why was that? Juliet, I can understand. But you?”

“You don't believe I worry about you?”

“I'm not sure I can believe anything you say any more.” The cat raised its head and mewed softly; Tybalt absently stroked it. “I don't believe in ghosts, Mercutio. Ghosts are not made of flesh and blood. It was not the hands of a ghost that tried to kill me here under your uncle's roof.”

Mercutio was at a loss for words. Tybalt's eyes were shadowed and dark.; his face might have been hewn from marble, so white and motionless did it seem in the moonlight. Mercutio could tell nothing of what Tybalt might be thinking. For one of the few times in his life, Mercutio felt as though he were walking a narrow path near a precipice. The wrong word and he could fall to be dashed upon the rocks of Tybalt's anger; and yet he could not even see where to place his feet.

“Do not tell me it was Valentine.”

Mercutio swallowed hard. “If it was me, then I was honestly not in my right mind,” he said quietly.

Tybalt's hand stilled in the cat's fur. “If it were...!” He stared at Mercutio, and then he began to laugh; a strange, harsh, whispering sound from that ruined throat. “Who else but you, Mercutio? You think I would not know you, even in that fox mask? I could tell it was you the moment you set foot in this room simply by the way you walk, the sound of your breathing, the very scent of your breath! Did you think I would not know the feel of your hands, the sound of your voice?”

“My hands, my voice; but I was not myself,” said Mercutio quietly. He glanced to the side, uncomfortable under Tybalt's gaze. He found himself focusing on the glowing digits of the bedside clock; it was 4:23am.

“Then who were you?” snarled Tybalt.

“Valentine,” breathed Mercutio.

He blinked, and suddenly he was sat astride Tybalt's chest, his hands pinning Tybalt's wrists against the headboard, and Tybalt was staring up into his face with wide eyes. The cat was crouched against the far side of the bed, it's ears flat against its skull and its fur on end as it hissed.

“Tybalt?” asked Mercutio, bewildered.

“Who are you?” breathed Tybalt.

Mercutio glanced at the bedside clock and blinked. It was 4:37am. He jerked his eyes back to Tybalt then snatched his hands away hurriedly. “What happened? What did I do?” he breathed.

“You... don't remember?” asked Tybalt warily.

“Nothing,” replied Mercutio. “Oh God – did I hurt you? Are you alright?” He scrambled to get off Tybalt's chest as the dark-haired man coughed then grimaced.

Tybalt rubbed his wrists slowly. “Nothing serious,” he whispered. “Mercutio... Valentine is... you?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Mercutio softly. “He... possesses me sometimes. I guess he was jealous of you. He was always highly protective of me.” He smiled sadly as he sat on the edge of the bed once more. “What did he do to you?” he asked quietly.

“He didn't try to kill me, if that's what you're asking,” said Tybalt slowly. He glanced over towards the terrified cat. “Marlowe,” he called in a low voice, holding out a hand to the wary feline. The cat stayed where it was for a moment before cautiously stretching out it's head to sniff at Tybalt's fingers, slowly lowering its hackles before butting at Tybalt's hand. He gently rubbed Marlowe's ears, and the cat allowed itself to be enticed back into his lap. Tybalt lay back, gently stroking the cat as he stared at Mercutio.

“So,” he whispered. “You and Valentine.”

“I can't explain it,” said Mercutio quietly. 

“I still don't believe in ghosts,” Tybalt answered. “But....”

“But?” echoed Mercutio. Tybalt sighed.

“The look in your eyes... it was... alien. Like someone – or some _thing_ \- else were staring at me through your eyes. A stranger wearing your face.” He flicked his eyes up to the ceiling. “I cannot explain what I saw. This is something beyond my experience.”

“You're tired,” said Mercutio. “I shouldn't have come.”

“Why did you come?” whispered Tybalt wearily.

“Because I couldn't sleep,” answered Mercutio. Tybalt chuckled.

“So you thought you would come and stare at me as I slept?”

Mercutio shrugged. 

Tybalt gestured to the empty space next to him. “Go on. Get in.”

“What?”

“Are you deaf as well as an idiot? I said get in. I'm tired and I want to sleep. Either get in the bed or go away, but either way I'm going back to sleep.” He rolled over onto his left side, the cat shifting around to curl up against his chest as Tybalt nuzzled his face into the pillow and closed his eyes.

Mercutio stared at him a moment, then padded around the bed and climbed in the other side. He lay there stiffly for a moment, then shifted over to tentatively spoon against Tybalt's back.

"Tybalt," he asked quietly.

"Mmm?" Tybalt sounded drowsy and half asleep.

"How do you know I won't... you know... How can you trust me after what just happened?"

“Idiot,” breathed Tybalt drowsily. "Because Valentine promised he wouldn't."

"What??" exclaimed Mercutio as he sat up and stared down at Tybalt. But Tybalt was asleep, his face slack in unconsciousness. Disquietened and not sure what to make of things, Mercutio lay down again. He eventually fell asleep with his arm draped around Tybalt's waist and his face buried in the ink-black hair.


	36. Chapter 36

Tybalt went from lightly dozing to full alertness in a heartbeat as he felt Mercutio stir behind him. He had no idea if it would be as Mercutio or as Valentine that he awoke. It was a somewhat unnerving thing to contemplate; that at any time Mercutio might be gone and a stranger look out from his eyes.

It alarmed him how swiftly the transformation had come over Mercutio last night – and how easily Valentine had overpowered him, pinning him to the bed. There had been something chilling in those ice blue eyes as he had stared down at Tybalt, devoid of the warmth and humour of Mercutio. The knife was beneath his pillow but with his hands pinned, it may as well have been on the moon – and he was wary of hurting Mercutio if he'd fought Valentine off to the best of his ability.

Valentine of course had no such worries restraining him, and he had grinned down at Tybalt, the smile never reaching his eyes.

“So you are Valentine,” Tybalt whispered hoarsely. Valentine's grin only grew wider.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked mockingly.

“Only of what it would do to Mercutio if you harm me,” said Tybalt softly, which checked Valentine, who stilled, his smile faltering.

“He cares for you,” said Valentine quietly, letting up a little on Tybalt's wrists though not releasing him. “I'm not sure why. But he persists, even when you drive him away. He is stubborn, obtuse, but you bring out something in him I have not seen since....”

“Since you died?” whispered Tybalt. Valentine fixed him with an intent stare then slowly nodded.

“Yes. Since I died.”

“What are you?” breathed Tybalt. “I don't believe in ghosts. No ghost could pin me like this. You are flesh and blood just as I am. _What are you?_ ”

“What do you think I am?” asked Valentine, tilting his head on one side.

“I have no idea,” replied Tybalt. “I'm no psychologist.”

Valentine leaned in close. “I live in his mind,” he whispered. “I am him, and he is me. I'm dead, but I live on in his memories.”

“I don't understand,” whispered Tybalt slowly. Valentine grinned.

“You will, in time. And I'll give you time. Don't be afraid of me, Tybalt. I won't harm you. I promise.” His smile was all teeth and no mirth.

His face abruptly went curiously blank, and then he blinked; he stared down, an expression of bewilderment on his face as he asked, “Tybalt?”

And Tybalt had had to ask, “Who are you?”

Now as Mercutio shifted then sat up behind him, one hand upon Tybalt's bare shoulder, the question came back to him.

_Who are you?_

“Mercutio?” he whispered. The hand on his shoulder tightened briefly.

“Go back to sleep; I'm going to make coffee,” answered Mercutio, his voice still thick from sleep. 

Tybalt let go the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding and felt his body relax into the bed once more.

He was just on the verge of drifting back into sleep again when the door opened. He opened his eyes and rolled over in the bed as Mercutio hooked the door closed with one bare foot, the tray balanced in his hands. Tybalt sat up as Mercutio brought the tray around the bed and sat on the edge near Tybalt, one leg folded up beneath him. Tybalt drew his legs up to sit cross-legged beneath the duvet as Mercutio set the tray down then poured a cup of black coffee for Tybalt before fixing his own cup with cream and sugar.

“So... about yesterday,” said Mercutio slowly. Tybalt sipped silently at his coffee and waited for Mercutio to continue. Mercutio glanced at him, evidently hoping Tybalt would start, but as Tybalt continued to observe him over the rim of his coffee mug, he fiddled with the teaspoon then drew a breath.

“I should have told you sooner about Valentine, and explaining by showing you his tomb was... perhaps not a great idea.”

Tybalt merely raised an eyebrow.

“You're not making this easy on me, are you?” said Mercutio.

“Should I?” Tybalt's voice was a quiet rasp. Mercutio wondered if he would ever fully grow used to the hoarse whisper his voice had been reduced to.

“I earned that,” conceded Mercutio. “Maybe by and by perhaps I'll also earn more than terse words and you'll say where you went?”

“Perhaps,” shrugged Tybalt. He sipped at his coffee slowly. He paused and glanced up at Mercutio as the other man reached forward to brush an errant strand of hair out of Tybalt's eyes. Tybalt checked himself as he began to automatically flinch away; his eyes met those of Mercutio briefly, then he lowered his gaze to the cup in his hands as he permitted him to gently sweep the offending lock out of Tybalt's face, tucking it behind his ear with a small smile. It still felt strange to permit Mercutio such intimacies that he had only previously experienced from his aunt; and yet in a way it felt somehow more _natural_ coming from Mercutio – particularly in light of the revelations he was still coming to terms with regarding his aunt. So many of their interactions he was forced to re-examine now in a whole new light that left him disquietened.

“Seems strange to see you with your hair shorter like this,” mused Mercutio. “It suits you though. Even if it does keep getting in your face.” He smiled.

“It served its purpose,” replied Tybalt. “None recognised me, as far as I'm aware.”

“My uncle doesn't know you left the palace, as far as I know. He'd doubtless want to know why otherwise.”

“He'll likely want to hear what I have to tell him,” replied Tybalt as he poured another cup of coffee for himself.

“Oh?” Mercutio leaned a little forward, his eyes lighting up with interest.

“My aunt is plotting with Paris to overthrow the Prince,” said Tybalt.

“That's old news; we'd surmised that much ourselves,” shrugged Mercutio. 

“Lord Capulet plans to move against Lady Montague under cover of their attempted coup,” continued Tybalt as though Mercutio hadn't spoken. “I believe he plans to have Romeo killed.”

“Just as well he's in hiding with us instead of still in Mantua,” observed Mercutio. “And yet another very good reason for us all to stay far away from there too.”

“When my uncle finds no sign of Romeo in Mantua he'll do everything in his power to find Romeo,” Tybalt said softly. “Don't underestimate him. He has many contacts in many cities. He won't rest until Lady Montague knows what it feels like to lose a child.”

“What do you think would happen if the Capulets discover you and Juliet are still alive?” wondered Mercutio as he took the pot and poured himself a second cup.

“That depends on whether my uncle or my aunt made the discovery first,” replied Tybalt, staring into his coffee cup. _Or Paris,_ he thought to himself. “I think my aunt would try to have me eliminated before my uncle could find out. Paris wouldn't move directly against me; he knows he can't match me with a blade. But he can afford to hire skilled assassins.”

“And your uncle?”

Tybalt sighed and set his cup down. Were his uncle's words merely that? It was easy to speak words from regret, harder to follow through with them. He had never known his uncle let sentiment get in the way of business, and if he had his heart set on destroying the Montagues then he might well be blinded by hate. “I'm not sure,” said Tybalt quietly. “He wouldn't directly try to have me killed. But I'm not sure how far he would stand in his wife's way if she gave him the chance to destroy the Montagues once and for all. If given a choice between saving Juliet or myself, I've no doubt he'd mourn me but I'd still be dead.”

“You think it would come to that?” asked Mercutio. Tybalt frowned.

“I'm not a fortune teller,” he scowled.

“The sooner we're out of Verona the happier I'll be,” sighed Mercutio.

“How soon?” asked Tybalt tersely. Mercutio shrugged.

“I'll ask him at breakfast. He's asked we join him in the dining hall this morning.” Tybalt felt distinctly uncomfortable at the prospect of facing the Prince again; it must have shown on his face, as Mercutio smiled reassuringly. “It's OK, he doesn't know you slipped out.”

Tybalt shrugged. If the Prince knew, there was little he could do about it. He'd returned of his own accord after all, and no-one in Verona any the wiser as far as he was aware. He wondered how long it would be before the nurse discovered his father's sword missing; or the cat, Marlowe.

Assuming she noticed, of course. Tybalt had owned many swords; somehow he doubted the old woman had kept tally of them all.

He heard the light scuff of a slippered foot upon carpet and lifted his head to stare at the door a moment before someone knocked.

“Who-” began Mercutio.

“My cousin,” replied Tybalt as he turned back to his coffee. “And Romeo.”

He was aware of the piercing glance Mercutio threw his way as he let in the couple; Tybalt smiled privately to himself as he sipped his coffee. He idly played with the cat's ears as Marlowe butted his head against Tybalt's arms. _Pushy creature._

“I can't believe you brought Marlowe back with you!” exclaimed Juliet delightedly as she usurped Mercutio's place to sit on the bed with Tybalt, reaching out to scoop up the fluffy black cat. Marlowe twitched an ear then settled into her lap fairly contentedly, purring.

“He brought himself,” replied Tybalt briefly before turning his attention to his coffee, though privately he felt a small thrill of pleasure that she had sought him out.

Since he had declared his love for Juliet in the Capulet mausoleum, things between himself and Juliet had felt... odd, was the only way he could think to describe it. She had always demonstrated affection towards him, but restrained, with the appropriate decorum of a girl towards her older cousin. There were five years between them, after all, and he had kept his love for her hidden away inside, allowing it expression only in his fierce protectiveness of her. Now at last she knew what had been engraved upon his own heart since he were fifteen; and yet old habits died hard. He was too used to keeping his heart hidden that he could not stop.

And then, too, Juliet was now the wife of another man, and it would be too unseemly to display too much affection for another man's spouse – even if she were his cousin. He had declared his love for her, but he had not won her.

He blinked, startled, as she reached out and laid her hand over his; he glanced up, and she gave him a gentle smile. “I was worried for you,” she said quietly. 

“Forgive me,” he rasped hoarsely.

“Of course, silly,” she chided him. “You're home safe now, which is all that matters.”

“Home? Perhaps,” he whispered. His throat felt tight and sore, and speech was becoming more painful. He was aware of Romeo's watchful eyes upon him, and fought down a flare of irritation. The man was Juliet's husband now. 

Mercutio cleared his throat noisily. “Well now, when Tybalt's finished making moon eyes at his dear cousin and Romeo's finished glowering, perhaps we can all go down to breakfast?”

“Mercutio, you're an ass,” said Romeo in irritation. Tybalt nodded as Juliet stifled a giggle with her hand.

“Is he always like this?” she asked Tybalt.

“Frequently worse,” Tybalt replied. 

“This is Mercutio being affectionate,” shrugged Romeo. 

“You jest, Romeo!” retorted Mercutio. “Sword or wit, I'll prick with either – and a most kindly prick too, if one has the wit to appreciate it!”

“But only if you have the wit to wield it, and then who's the prick?” replied Romeo with a grin.

“A touch! A touch!” exclaimed Mercutio, melodramatically clapping his hand over his breast. “You're too witty for me this morning Romeo – what do you say, Tybalt?”

“That you talk too much,” replied Tybalt as Juliet giggled.

“Come and have breakfast with us then; I promise you it will be far quieter,” she suggested.

“Alas, my dear, we are all commanded to attend upon my uncle for breakfast this morning,” replied Mercutio with a sigh before Tybalt could answer. Juliet's face fell, and Tybalt reached out to lay his hand lightly over hers.

“Tomorrow?” he suggested quietly, and was rewarded by her brilliant smile.

“How sweet; I think I shall be sick,” said Mercutio and made retching noises.

“Leave off, Mercutio,” said Romeo, giving Tybalt an understanding glance.

Mercutio stared from Romeo to Tybalt and then to Juliet. “What's this? Has he finally actually told his fair cousin he loves her?” he exclaimed.

Tybalt lifted his head and glared daggers at Mercutio as Romeo let his hand fall heavily onto Mercutio's shoulder. “I _said_ , leave _off_ , Mercutio,” he repeated warningly.

Mercutio mimed zipping his mouth shut. Romeo rolled his eyes at him then sighed. “Come on, love, let's leave these two to get dressed.”

Juliet leaned forward and gave Tybalt a brief kiss on the cheek. “Don't kill him,” she whispered, jerking her head at Mercutio, then she gathered up Marlowe in her arms and followed Romeo.

“What was that all about?” asked Mercutio as Tybalt rose from the bed.

“You're a dick,” Tybalt muttered. He set about getting dressed.


	37. Chapter 37

Mercutio would rather have forgone breakfast with his uncle, but when the Prince of Verona _requested_ your attendance then it was usually best to comply – even if your name were Mercutio Escalus. Sometimes, _epecially_ if your name were Mercutio. After yesterday's little spot of drama down in the crypt (and yes, he'd have to concede Valentine's point on that one – he _had_ been an ass and they were all fortunate events hadn't turned out worse than they did), doubtless Escalus would want to establish for himself precisely how Tybalt was taking things.

Mercutio darted a glance at the man in question who was wandering out from a remarkably brief shower clad only in a white towel, clean-shaven, and towelling off his damp hair. Tybalt made his way across to the chest of drawers as he folded the towel in his hand and threw it into the laundry hamper with a casual yet accurate underhand toss with barely a glance, then selected clothing.

“How formal is the Prince at private breakfasts?” whispered Tybalt then glanced over his shoulder at Mercutio, taking in his black jeans, scruffy trainers and dark t-shirt with a faint frown.

“Fairly casual. Don't worry, this is just breakfast, not a formal court occasion,” replied Mercutio with a grin. “Just relax – whatever you wear should be fine.”

Tybalt arched an eyebrow but said nothing as he selected a pair of charcoal-grey slacks and a black button-down shirt that looked to be a silk blend from the way it draped as Tybalt tugged it on. Mercutio had to hand it to the taciturn Capulet – even dressed down, he still managed to look better groomed than Mercutio on his better days. He ran a hand through his shock of ginger hair ruefully.

He crossed his arms and leaned against the desk then spotted a large dark green bag resting on the chair seat beside the desk.

“What's in the bag?” he asked curiously, craning his neck to peer in.

“Nothing for you,” replied Tybalt, his husky rejoinder terse. Mercutio wondered if the curt tone was for the question or irritation over the way he was still unable to talk above a whisper. He knew Tybalt's throat still pained him from the way he would catch brief sight of a grimace of pain upon his face that smoothed away the moment he thought he was being observed; he never complained of discomfort, but then that was nothing new.

He pushed himself away from the desk and came up behind Tybalt as he fiddled with his buttons; Mercutio rested his chin on Tybalt's shoulders as he reached around to brush the long slender fingers out of the way. “Let me,” he said quietly, glancing up at Tybalt in the mirror. Tybalt's eyes had widened in surprise briefly, but after staring at Mercutio for a moment he nodded and lowered his hands as Mercutio began to do up the shirt.

“I'm sorry about yesterday – and about early this morning,” he said after the first couple of buttons. “I'll admit I got worried when we couldn't find you. I found your pill bottle on the desk – nearly empty, I was afraid -”

“That I'd taken them all?” murmured Tybalt. He shook his head. “No. I wasn't sure how long I would be gone, and pill bottles rattle too much.”

“Why did you leave? It wasn't just me and Valentine, was it?” He finished fastening the last button and wrapped his arms around Tybalt, who sighed.

“Not entirely, though it was what pushed me to act. There were... certain things I needed.”

Mercutio glanced to the sword that hung from the bedpost. “Your father's sword?”

Tybalt nodded. “And some other things of... personal value. I also needed to find out what my aunt is up to.”

“You learned something, you said?”

Tybalt shrugged and pulled away from Mercutio; he stepped back and let him go. “Some, not as much as I'd hoped,” answered Tybalt as he made his way to the bed and sat down to pull on socks and shoes. “But maybe the Prince's intelligence services will find it useful enough.” Fully dressed, he rose once more and picked up the bag before heading towards the door, the cat leaping lightly down from the bed to pad along at his heels like a large fuzzy black shadow.

“Dining hall's this way,” called Mercutio as he jerked his head towards the stairs; Tybalt ignored him and carried on to the door of the suite that had been given to Romeo and Juliet. He knocked and waited; the door opened as Mercutio caught up to him. Marlowe the cat darted into the room as it opened and Juliet smiled delightedly up at Tybalt.

“I brought some of your things,” said Tybalt quietly as he handed her the bag. “I'm sorry, I wasn't sure what I should bring – there are a few dresses, your tablet, your jewellery -”

Juliet silenced him by flinging her arms around his neck and giving him a kiss on the lips. Mercutio noted with interest the way Tybalt's eyes flew wide in surprise even as the hand holding the bag dropped to his side and the other hand lifted almost automatically to embrace Juliet, his eyes then fluttering closed as he bent his head down towards his cousin.

Juliet broke off the kiss and grinned up at Tybalt as he opened his eyes again.

“Silly goose,” she chided him. “That you managed to bring me anything at all – Tybalt, I had no idea! You must have taken a terrible risk, but I love you for it.” She gave him another quick kiss before releasing him; he silently held out the bag to her.

“Come in!” she told him as she took it. “You too, Mercutio!” she added as she spotted him. “Romeo's just shaving; he'll be ready soon.” She grabbed Tybalt's hand and tugged him after her into the sitting room, and Mercutio was amused by the almost docile way Tybalt allowed himself to be led. Mercutio sauntered in after them.

Juliet pushed Tybalt down onto the settee then sat down next to him as she set the bag on the coffee table and began to go through the things he'd brought. Mercutio wandered over to stand behind the settee so he could peer over their shoulders; as Juliet pulled out the tablet with a relieved grin, Romeo strolled in from the bedroom, fiddling with the top button on his white shirt.

“Ah, Mercutio!” he greeted his friend. He paused as he took in the sight of his wife sorting excitedly through the bag, breaking off with a delighted squeal each time she discovered a much-loved treasure to fling her arms around Tybalt and kiss him.

Mercutio slung an arm around Romeo's shoulders, his lips close to the Montague youth's ear. “If it helps any, I think Tybalt is perhaps every bit as uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of your wife's affections as you are to witness them,” he murmured. “Look how stiff he is.”

“I would have thought him delighted – after all, he's loved her for years,” replied Romeo _sotto voce_.

“When you've been hiding your feelings all your life, it's hard to shake the habit,” answered Mercutio softly. “Besides, I'm sure he knows you're right behind him.” Mercutio grinned as he raised his voice a little. “Don't you, Tybalt?”

“Hello, Romeo,” Tybalt answered, his voice rough and stilted. Juliet glanced around with a happy smile.

“Oh, love, look – Tybalt managed to bring me some of my things! All my jewellery, a few of my favourite dresses – and look!” She held up a tatty old stuffed toy rabbit. “He even remembered Bunny!”

Mercutio blinked and stared at Tybalt. He'd risked taking the time to fetch not only valuable things like the jewellery and the tablet, but an old, threadbare stuffed toy?”

“You always loved him,” rasped Tybalt softly. “I could hardly leave him behind. You'd had him since you were two.”

“Oh cousin,” she said gently as she stroked his cheek with a fond smile. “Only you would have remembered or cared.”

“Nurse is still at the house. Your mother tried to dismiss her but your father is keeping her on until she decides what she wants to do.”

Juliet blinked, and suddenly she started crying. “I miss her!” she whimpered.

Mercutio put a hand on Romeo's shoulder as his friend moved forward; Juliet was already reaching for Tybalt who held her gently and stroked her hair as she cried. Romeo frowned at Mercutio, who merely jerked his head back towards the bedroom.

“Mercutio, my wife is upset – don't you think I should be comforting her?” demanded Romeo as Mercutio closed the door behind them.

“No, I think you need to leave her to be comforted by the one person who knows what she's feeling and missing right now, far more than either of us do,” replied Mercutio. “Your wife has basically lost everyone who raised her from a child except Tybalt. And she's the only family _he_ has left. They're both hurting right now and I think they need each other more than they need us. Sorry, Romeo, you'll have to make do with me instead.” He pressed his back against the door and smiled, though he could feel the grin slipping as Romeo sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“You're being remarkably calm and level-headed for once, Mercutio,” said Romeo and gave his friend a rueful smile.

“Don't get too used to it,” quipped Mercutio lightly.

Romeo sat on the edge of the bed and glanced up at Mercutio. “So. Any idea what happens next?” he asked.

“Well, Juliet gets her feeling out and soaks dear cousin Tybalt's shirt whilst he awkwardly hugs her and expects you to come bursting in any minute and finish off what you started back in the piazza over a week ago, then -”

“I mean, what happens to all of us, Mercutio? Where do we go from here? We can't stay in Verona. But I have no idea where we go, what we do – to the outside world, we're dead.” 

Mercutio sighed. “My uncle has some plan in mind to get us out of the city. New identities for all of us, fake papers, bank accounts, the works. We start a new life elsewhere, and he tries to pick up the pieces.”

“For how long?” asked Romeo.

Mercutio shrugged. He'd never been much of a one for looking to the future. He'd always lived in the here and now; though his uncle had spoken of the plans to get them out of the city, it had never occurred to Mercutio what would come after or to consider what their lives would be like away from Verona. He'd lived all his life here; he couldn't imagine living anywhere else.

Valentine had always been the imaginative one.

He jumped as there was a knock at the door behind him. He turned and opened it to find himself staring at Tybalt.

“There's a servant at the door. It's time to go,” he whispered roughly then turned away without glancing back to see if they followed.

“Mercutio,” said Romeo in a low tone as Mercutio made to follow; he glanced back, curious. Romeo draped an arm around Mercutio's shoulders as he leaned in close.

“I don't pretend to understand what's going on between you two. But it confuses the hell out of me at times. Why _him_?”

“Well, you're a married man and Benvolio's not my type!” He patted Romeo on the arm and grinned then ducked away.

“One day you'll give me a straight answer!” laughed Romeo from behind him as they made their way back into the sitting room.

“I wouldn't hold your breath!” Mercutio answered with a laugh.

Juliet splashed some cold water on her face and then they followed the servant down towards the large dining room. Juliet took Romeo's arm with a warm smile as Tybalt and Mercutio followed behind them. Mercutio linked his arm with Tybalt's; Tybalt shot him a startled glance then frowned as he shook his arm free, not in the mood for games it seemed. But as they made their way down the sweeping curved staircase Mercutio felt Tybalt briefly stroke the back of his hand with a couple of fingers; Mercutio glanced sidelong at him and Tybalt glanced away, a faint blush stealing up his neck from the collar of his shirt and across his ears.

Mercutio managed to restrain a smirk as he turned towards Tybalt. “So I suppose you-” he began in a low voice, but got no further as a sudden violent explosion erupted across the hallway, engulfing the foot of the stairs in fire and a billowing cloud of dust and smoke.

Mercutio had a brief moment to notice that Juliet, though startled, didn't scream; he felt Tybalt's hand close over his upper arm and then Mercutio felt himself being bodily thrown back up the stairs. He stumbled and clutched at the bannister as he stared back down the stairs; Tybalt was reaching for Juliet and Romeo, dragging them back up the stairs and away from the flames licking up the bannister and devouring the carpet a stair at a time. Of the hapless servant who had been leading them downwards there was no sign.

“Run!” Tybalt managed to call hoarsely as he shoved Romeo up the stairs towards Mercutio, his free arm around Juliet's waist as he followed swiftly. Though pale, Juliet seemed calm – trusting, no doubt, that her cousin would see her to safety. Mercutio grabbed Romeo's wrist as he hesitated, and tugged him upwards as the sound of gunfire echoed around the staircase walls.

“Come on, we need to get the hell out of here!” he called.

“What's going on?” asked Romeo as he glanced back to his wife and Tybalt.

“Keep going!” Tybalt rasped.

They raced up the stairs then pressed themselves against the wall as a contingent of Royal Guards pounded down the stairs in full riot gear and armed with submachine guns. The rearmost Guardsman caught at Mercutio's arm. 

“Get to safety sir!” he ordered. “The palace is under attack. The guest wing is under secure guard.”

“Who is it?” asked Mercutio.

“No idea. They're not wearing colours or house devices. Go, this stairwell isn't secured yet!”

As Romeo yanked at his arm, dragging him on up the stairs, Mercutio yelled back, “What of my uncle? Is the Prince safe?”

“He's en route to the secure bunker sir! He'll send for you as soon as it's safe!”

Romeo dragged him away up the stairs, Tybalt pressing close behind with Juliet close by his side.

They sprinted down a corridor then halted as they turned the corner to find four men scattered dead upon the floor, all riddled with bullet wounds. Mercutio frowned as he stared down at the bodies.

“These aren't my uncle's men,” he said slowly as he toed one body in black featureless body amour. “That's not standard Guard issue. Nor are these guns.”

Tybalt crouched by another body. “I know this man,” he said softly. “I have seen him in the employ of Paris, the Prince's cousin.”

“He's attempting a coup?” exclaimed Romeo. Tybalt nodded as he plucked the gun from the man's lifeless hand. 

“With Capulet support,” he said slowly as he inspected the gun. “This came from one of my uncle's warehouses.”

“From one of father's warehouses?” said Juliet in bewilderment. “I don't understand – why would there be guns in one of his warehouses?”

Tybalt hunted through the dead man's pouches and retrieved several clips for the gun, shoving them in his pockets before straightening to face his young cousin. “There are many things about your father's business you never knew, Juliet,” he said quietly. “Not all of his deals were... innocent and above-board.”

“Your uncle is a gun-runner?” said Mercutio slowly. Tybalt nodded briefly.

“Amongst other things. He has his fingers in several pies, some more legal than others.”

“Perhaps the revelations about my... father-in-law's businesses can wait until we're somewhere quieter?” suggested Romeo.

Tybalt nodded. “We should arm ourselves in case we run into more of Paris' men,” he suggested.

“Makes sense,” agreed Mercutio as he relieved another dead man of his gun, Romeo doing likewise. Juliet regarded them with worried eyes.

“What about Juliet?” asked Mercutio.

“Juliet's never handled guns like these, only small sport pistols and rifles,” answered Tybalt. “She's a good shot but the recoil on one of these would make them unwieldy for her.” He glanced up as the sound of distant gunfire came closer. “We'd best go.”

They fled along the corridor and up another flight of stairs, heading in the direction of the guest wing. As they reached the end of the corridor, they heard shouts behind them; Romeo and Mercutio turned as one to stare back down the corridor, raising their guns as a group of infiltrators appeared at the other end of the hallway.

“Tybalt, get Juliet out of here! We'll hold them off!” shouted Romeo as he raised his gun and opened fire.

“Romeo, _no!_ ” screamed Juliet; as Mercutio risked a quick glance back over his shoulder, he noted Tybalt was ignoring her protests and dragging her swiftly away from danger.

He turned to face the approaching intruders, raising his own gun and offering a silent yet fervent prayer to any gods that might be listening that they all survived this.

He squeezed the trigger and the gun bucked and roared in his hands.


	38. Chapter 38

Tybalt half-dragged, half-carried Juliet back towards the guest wing, ignoring her pleas for him to stop, to go back. 

He paused only as they came to the wide double doors that led into the guest wing on this level.

“Tybalt, please, we _have_ to go back – he's my husband!” Juliet pleaded tearfully. “Why won't you listen to me?”

“Hush,” he hissed tersely. “There are no guards on the doors.”

Juliet fell silent as she stared at the doors then at him. “Do you think they're inside?” she said, her voice low.

“Don't know,” replied Tybalt as he stared at the doors. “Get behind me.” He checked the clip in his gun and thumbed the switch to semi-auto. Juliet slipped behind him and pressed herself against the wall, one hand upon the small of his back.

It was like the games they'd played in childhood – he the brave strong bodyguard, she the beautiful princess, breaking out of the enemy fortress. (How they'd come to be in the fortress had never been part of the games, only the daring escape.) Yet this was no game; the enemies would not be other cousins with toy guns but real, living men whose guns were loaded and would kill. He couldn't be certain they would necessarily recognise Juliet. He had to count on his own fast reflexes, skills and experience to get her to safety.

They advanced slowly towards the doors, Juliet moving on silent feet as he'd taught her so long ago. He couldn't help but feel a small swell of pride at the way she had handled the whole situation thus far; though alarmed, she had only screamed once – and that was in protest at being forced to leave her husband behind. In the presence of possible danger, with the likelihood of enemies around every corner, she was steadfast, silent and determined – a Capulet to the heart.

The door opened smoothly at his touch; he signalled to her to stay out of sight as he assessed the situation, listening carefully before dropping to a crouch and rolling swiftly through the slight gap to rise smoothly to his feet and press his back against the opposite wall, gun tracking across the hall as he scanned it with his eyes for any sign of movement. Only when he was satisfied there was no present danger did he signal to Juliet to join him.

He scanned each room carefully as they passed, working their way towards their rooms. When they reached the suite Juliet and Romeo had occupied for the past week, he scanned the sitting room swiftly with his eyes before motioning Juliet inside. He gestured to the side and she slipped into hiding behind a wooden writing desk as he made his way cautiously through the whole suite. Only when he was satisfied it was completely empty did he return to the sitting room, closing and locking the door.

Juliet rose from her hiding place and crossed over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist as she hid her face against his chest and drew a deep, shaky breath. Her eyes were clear and dry as she lifted her head to stare up at him.

“What now?” she asked quietly.

“Grab a bag, throw in everything you think you're going to need. You and Romeo,” he added as an afterthought. “Whatever happens, we need to get out of the palace.”

Juliet nodded and grabbed the bag off the coffee table then darted into the bedroom. Tybalt stayed with his back to the door, listening intently.

She rejoined him a short while later, the bag slung over her shoulder. He noted with approval that she'd changed from her dress into something more practical – black jeans, a dark grey t-shirt and flat shoes. She'd braided back her long hair and fastened it into a bun.

“Ready?” he asked, and she nodded then held up a hand.

“Wait!” She scooped up Marlowe the cat. “Now I'm ready.”

Tybalt frowned as he stared at the cat, then slowly nodded. “If he bolts, we can't go after him, you understand?”

“I'll take that chance,” she answered steadily.

Tybalt nodded, then quietly unlocked the door. Checking the hall was still empty, he gestured and they slipped out quietly and made their way down to Tybalt's room. As before, Juliet slipped into hiding whilst Tybalt made sure the suite was clear before he locked the door and she came out again. He headed into the bedroom, Juliet following behind.

He grabbed the rucksack, stuffing in the laptop and his back of meds. Crossing to the chest of drawers he pulled out the spare clothing he'd unpacked only a few hours previously, then pulled off the dress shoes, tugging on his boots instead. He buckled his father's sword on about his waist then drew the dagger out from beneath his pillow before sheathing it and fixing the sheath to Juliet's belt, tugging her black denim jacket down to hide it. 

He donned his leather coat then swung the rucksack onto his back then hefted the gun in his hand and gestured towards the door.

“Where are we going?” asked Juliet quietly. “Shouldn't we wait for the others?”

“I promised your husband I'd get you out of here, and I mean to keep my promise,” Tybalt replied quietly.

“But where will we go?” asked Juliet.

“Father Lawrence,” answered Tybalt as he unlocked the door then carefully peered out. “Come on.”

They were halfway down the stairs when they heard voices from the direction of the kitchen. Tybalt mentally cursed. It was unlikely to be Mercutio and Romeo. The only way out to the garden would lead directly past the kitchen. He made up his mind swiftly.

“Come on – this way,” he murmured over his shoulder to Juliet, and headed down.

As they descended the stone stairs towards the crypt, Juliet looked curiously, unable to repress a small shudder. “Tybalt, is this... a tomb?” she breathed.

“Last resting place of the Escaluses,” he nodded. “The dead can't hurt us.”

“Can we get out this way?”

“I don't know, but if it comes to it, it's as good a place as any to hide, and easier to defend than one of the bedrooms,” answered Tybalt. He felt in his pocket for the small key to the crypt he'd palmed from Mercutio's desk earlier. He hadn't been sure why he'd felt the urge to do so at the time but he was glad of the impulse now as he quietly let them into the crypt.

“Is this where Mercutio's brother was buried?” Juliet whispered. Tybalt nodded and gestured down the long aisle flanked on either side by dead princes and nobility of the line of Escalus. 

“Down here. Last one on the left,” he murmured as he led the way.

“Tybalt – there's a door down there. Where does it lead?” Juliet asked, gesturing to the end of the aisle.

“Don't know,” replied Tybalt. He hadn't noticed it last time he was down here; he'd been too intent upon Mercutio at first, and then afterwards he'd been too preoccupied with putting as much space between himself and Mercutio as possible. He paused by Valentine's tomb as he studied the door.

Juliet was staring at the small plaque on Valentine's tomb. “He was only fifteen. Romeo and Benvolio told me what happened; it was horrible.” She glanced up at Tybalt. “No wonder Mercutio is the way he is.”

Tybalt didn't answer, instead tracing his hands lightly over the dense oak wood of the door. He tried the door handle; it was locked. He tried the small key in the lock and was rewarded by a soft click as the tumblers fell into place and the door opened.

“Tybalt!” hissed Juliet as the door at the far end of the crypt slammed open. He spun round and Juliet pressed herself behind him. The cat hissed in Juliet's arms, ears laid flat against its skull.

Four men had burst through the door he'd left unlocked behind him.

“Who's that?” one of the men asked.

“Doesn't matter. Not one of ours. Take them down.” They raised their guns even as Tybalt raised his, shoving Juliet through the door behind him as he twisted to stand side on, presenting less of a target.

The roar of automatic gunfire in the confines of the crypt was deafeningly loud. Bullets ricocheted off stone shelves and gouged chunks of stone out of tombs. Tybalt had the satisfaction of seeing the first two men go down as he tapped the trigger lightly twice, then grunted as he felt something hit his right leg. 

“Tybalt!” screamed Juliet as he staggered back a step, her voice almost lost beneath the sounds of gunfire as the other two men tried to take Tybalt down. One of the men checked himself and lowered his gun slightly but the other dropped forward into a crouch as he drew a bead on Tybalt's chest and fired.

Tybalt threw himself to one side as he returned fire. He had the satisfaction of seeing the man drop even as he felt something tear through the leather of his coat to graze a hot line of fire across his back.

“Run!” he rasped as he pushed Juliet ahead of him through the door and slammed it behind him, fumbling with the key. It was with a sigh of relief he felt it turn and the door lock.

He heard Juliet scrabbling at the walls to either side of the doorway in the dark, and then a dim light suffused the room as a series of ancient tungsten bulbs flickered to life. Some remained dark, but enough remained to see that they were in a long dank tunnel that curved away out of sight up ahead. Tybalt was dully surprised to note Juliet still had hold of the cat; he had been certain Marlowe would have fled at the din of gunfire. The animal was wild-eyed but seemed none the worse for its scare. Tybalt wished he could say the same for himself.

A thud against the door on the other side spurred Tybalt into movement; he took a step and nearly fell as his leg began to give way under him. Juliet dropped the cat and grabbed at him, wrapping an arm around his waist as she dragged his arm over her shoulders. He had enough presence of mind to flick the gun's safety on.

“You're hurt!” she exclaimed. “How bad is it?”

“I'll live,” he replied in a pained whisper. “We have to move. I don't know how long that door will hold.” The door shuddered in its frame as something heavy thudded into it on the other side as though to emphasise his words.

They began to make their way down the tunnel as swiftly as they could, Tybalt gritting his teeth as pain flared up his leg with every footstep. It felt like he'd been hit in the thigh and a glancing blow in the calf; he was thankful the thigh wound was far enough over to have missed the artery, but every step was agony. He fixed his eyes on the curve in the tunnel as he limped on, grateful for Juliet's silent presence. She knew better than to distract him with talk; she who knew him perhaps better than any other living person. Marlowe was a silent furry shadow at his heels, keeping steady pace with them.

The walls of the tunnel were damp and there was a rank smell in the air; he guessed this tunnel must connect up with the sewers somewhere up ahead. Maybe even the city sewers, if they were fortunate. 

His guess proved correct as they rounded the bend in the tunnel and found the tunnel widened out. The path they were walking on divided into two narrow walkways just ahead; through a barred grill that blocked their way they could see the walkways passed either side of a sewer trench. Dripping pipe outlets protruding from the walls either side showed where channelled waste from buildings above made their egress down into the main waste channel. The roof arched up overhead in the darkness.

Juliet finally spoke. “Will the key work here?” Her voice was low and hushed. Tybalt shuffled forward and tried the key in the lock. The lock was stiff, rusty from disuse and the dank conditions, but with difficulty he was finally able to turn it and the gate creaked open with a screech from protesting hinges. He locked it again once they were through, then Juliet helped him straighten and they made their way towards the left-hand walkway as Tybalt fished out his keyring and flicked on the small maglite.

It was too narrow for them to walk abreast; Tybalt made Juliet walk in front carrying the maglite, he following behind her with his left hand braced against the damp brickwork as he limped behind. Marlowe ghosted along just behind him; whenever he glanced down he could see only a pair of luminous golden eyes staring back up at him.

“Where do you think we are?” Juliet whispered back over her shoulder. Sound could carry a long distance in tunnels such as these, and they had no way of telling if there were more enemies down here.

Tybalt had been trying to work that out himself. At a guess, he figured they were somewhere near the entrance to the palace. “If we keep following this sewer, we should be out under the main piazza in front of the palace shortly,” he grunted.

Juliet glanced back at him. “How bad is it?” she asked.

“Bad enough,” he finally admitted. “We can't stop here. Have to keep going.”

She looked rebellious for a moment, then nodded and moved on.

He lost track of time as they slowly made their way through the sewers. He expected to hear the sounds of pursuit at any moment, but the sewers remained silent save for the echoes of their own feet as they scuffed old stonework, the steady drip-drip-drip, and occasionally the distant sounds of waste being disgorged into a main channel somewhere. Somehow the quietness failed to reassure him. It was taking most of his focus and mental energy to continue limping behind Juliet, and he was having to lean more and more heavily upon the wall to his left.

They headed straight over the first junction they encountered; the channel was narrow enough at this point that Juliet could leap over it with Marlowe in her arms, though it proved hard for Tybalt to follow. His legs were longer, but he was hampered by his wound and nearly fell when it gave way on him upon landing. The gun skittered away into the dank waters with a splash as Tybalt's hands scrabbled for purchase on the brick wall; Juliet grabbed him and helped him regain his balance before he could follow the gun over the edge.

“The gun!” she exclaimed in low dismay.

“Leave it,” he said tersely. But he regretted the loss as they made their way further on. He still had his father's sword, and Juliet still had the knife – but neither would be of much use against guns. His throwing knives were buried somewhere inside his rucksack. What was done was done however.

The sewer began to widen out, and at the next junction they were forced to concede there would be no jumping this one. The thin maglite beam barely illuminated the damp bricks on the far side. It was unlikely Juliet would manage to make it safely across, and Tybalt dared not attempt it at all. Instead they took the left turning, and made their way along as far as they could. The further away from the main junction they got, the narrower the sewer became, with small channels flowing down from either side that they could step over. Juliet finally halted as the maglite illuminated a set of rungs set into the wall to her left.

“Where do you think we are?” she whispered.

“No idea. I'd guess that's a manhole at street level,” suggested Tybalt. “Let me go up first and see if I can shift the cover.”

Juliet took his rucksack then held the light steady as Tybalt began to pull himself up the ladder painfully slowly. He presently found himself climbing up a narrow shaft, and he was able to take a little of the pressure off his injured leg by bracing his back against the damp brickwork.

He managed with some difficulty to dislodge the heavy cast-iron manhole cover by dint of brute force, shoving against it with his shoulder until it slid off with a loud grating sound. He drew a breath of fresh air gratefully.

He glanced around; he had emerged in a quiet, deserted alley off a street he didn't recognise. He turned and called to Juliet, and presently they were both sitting by the side of a building, bags by their sides, Marlowe sat nearby busy washing the sewer taint out of his fur.

“What are we going to do now?” asked Juliet after they'd caught their breath.

“Try to make it to Father Lawrence,” replied Tybalt, straightening his injured leg with a grimace.

“Not before I take a look at that leg,” answered Juliet. Though Tybalt protested, she pushed him back down when he tried to rise before hunting through her bag.

He allowed her to help him tug down his slacks far enough to reveal the wound; she drew in her breath with a hiss when she saw the mess the bullet had left of his thigh before pulling out the knife and one of the dresses from her bag.

“Juliet, no, that's one of your favourites!” he protested as she began to rip a long strip off with the knife.

“Was,” she corrected him. “You're far more important to me than a dress. A favourite dress can be replaced; my favourite cousin can't.”

He subsided and let her dress the wound then bandage it firmly, then she helped him pull his slacks back up.

“Your favourite cousin. You're sweet, Juliet,” he said fondly as he brushed a stray strand of hair out of her eyes.

“Sweet? Is that all?” she grinned at him. He sighed.

“Don't tease, Juliet – not when you know how I feel about you. It isn't fair on me.”

“Then how about this instead?” she murmured as she bent closer and kissed his lips softly. He groaned, eyes sliding half-shut, taking a wistful pleasure in the chasteness of her kiss.

His eyes opened wide as she threaded her hands into his hair and he felt the press of her tongue against his lips, which parted unthinkingly. She claimed his mouth almost hungrily with deep, searching kisses that were anything but chaste as she tasted deeply of him. He closed his eyes and moaned into her hot, inviting mouth, not daring to taste her in turn even as she seemed almost to be trying to devour him; her answering groan was encouraging, inviting.

He wanted to surrender to her. Wanted it with all his heart and soul.

Yet he finally managed to lift his hands to her shoulders and gently yet firmly push her away. As she stared down at him, confusion in her eyes, he shook his head sadly.

“You're not mine, Juliet my love,” he said softly. “You married another. I... can't do this. You have no idea how much I want to, but – I can't.” He turned his face away as she gave a little cry of disappointment. “Forgive me,” he breathed.

Benvolio found them there some hours later, Juliet curled around Tybalt protectively, his head resting against her shoulder, the cat curled upon his lap.

She wouldn't tell Benvolio why she was crying.


	39. Chapter 39

Mercutio peered through the rails down at the hallway below, then glanced down at the gun in his hand, trying to mentally tally how many shots there should be left in the clip.

“It doesn't matter how much you stare at it, it won't have any more bullets than the last time you looked,” said Romeo quietly. Mercutio lifted his eyes to stare at him but said nothing.

Romeo shifted slightly with a grimace before peering down through the bannister to stare at the men stationed below them. “Do you think they made it out?” 

“Maybe.” Mercutio shrugged.

“Mercutio.”

Mercutio glanced back at his friend, and Romeo gave him a faint smile.

“Bet you never thought it would turn out like this, huh? After all we've been through -”

“Don't,” said Mercutio softly. “We're not dead yet. And nor is my uncle. We'll get out of this yet.”

Romeo sighed and let his head fall back against the bannister, one hand pressed against the slowly-spreading crimson stain at his side.

They'd held off the group of invaders on the second floor long enough to give Tybalt and Juliet a fighting chance to get away, but no sooner had they dealt with that first small group than they'd had to retreat away from a second, larger group that cut them off and prevented them following after the two Capulet cousins. They'd been hunting for a way to double round and rejoin them but it seemed they'd instead run into one group of invaders after another. 

Prince Escalus' troops were mounting a strenuous defence of the palace but the invading forces appeared to have split up into several small splinter units to spread out through the palace. Some seemed intent on searching for something, whilst others set about securing the ancient building. Mercutio and Romeo had encountered the bodies of a few dead servants here and there, but for the most part it seemed the palace staff apart from the security forces had either gone to ground or fled altogether, for which Mercutio was grateful.

Their luck had perhaps held out a little too well at first, or perhaps Romeo had simply gotten too cocky. Whatever the reason, something had gone wrong on their last encounter with the Capulet troops, and Romeo had taken a couple of hits including a bad one to the ribs before Mercutio could drag them through a couple of side rooms and into a servant's passage that led up towards the cuppola over the main entry hall. Now Romeo was slowly bleeding out, Mercutio was almost out of ammo, and they were both running out of options.

“How bad is it?” asked Mercutio softly.

“Bad enough,” said Romeo bleakly. “I wish -” He blinked rapidly and tried again, his voice thickening. “I just wish I could have seen Juliet one last time. Just to say goodbye.”

“Don't!” hissed Mercutio fiercely as he laid the gun aside and clutched the front of Romeo's shirt with both hands, shaking him lightly. “Don't say that, you hear me? We're both going to get out of here, and we're both going to _live_ damn it. You're not going to give up on me now!”

“Who's giving up?” asked Romeo softly, but the look in his brown eyes as he stared up at Mercutio said he knew they were both lying. He laid a blood-flecked hand over Mercutio's fist and tried to smile. “You've been a good friend to me, Mercutio. Closer than a brother. This... this whole mess is my fault, I dragged you and Benvolio into it all – and, yes, Tybalt too, and none of you asked for this -”

“What the hell are you rambling on about?” Mercutio frowned.

“If I hadn't been so rash in the first place -” Romeo tried again.

“Wait – you think all this is because of you?” said Mercutio incredulously. “Romeo, you ass, do you honestly think the Capulets and Paris wouldn't have tried to stage this little coup anyway?”

“Well....”

Mercutio groaned. “Romeo, I love you dearly but you can be such an utter idiot at times. No, this wasn't the fault of you and Juliet. In fact, if anything it's just as well things have gone the way they did when you think about it, because at least Tybalt is technically on _our_ side now. We wouldn't still be alive to talk about this if he'd been leading the Capulet forces.” He chanced a quick glance over the bannister down at the armed men milling around in the hall below. “Whoever they've got leading them at the moment, they're doing a shoddy job compared to Tybalt. Thankfully.”

Romeo grinned ruefully then coughed before clutching at his ribs as he choked.

“Romeo!” Mercutio groaned as he slipped an arm around his friend's shoulders and held him whilst he fought for breath. “Hang in there, Romeo. You're not worm-bait yet. We've got to get you out of here.”

“And go where?” gasped Romeo as he caught his breath. “In case it had escaped your attention, we're surrounded by enemy troops.”

“Thank you, that salient detail had somehow slipped me mind,” replied Mercutio drily. “There has to be another way down somehow.”

“Where are we anyway?” asked Romeo as he glanced around at the mezzanine walkway that ran around the top of the vaulted hallway just below a large painted cupola.

“Near the roof; there's a door -” Mercutio broke off, then smiled slowly. “There's a door on the other side of this galley that leads up onto the roof near a walkway that overlooks the front of the palace. Do you feel up to moving?”

“You've got a plan; I know that look in your eye,” said Romeo. “Won't the roof be guarded?”

“Maybe not – all the Capulet forces seem to have come in at ground level and worked their way up through the floors. I don't think they mounted a roof offensive. Tybalt wouldn't have made a slip like that; told you they were slacking since they lost him.” Mercutio's grin held a faint flicker of pride as he mentioned the tall dark Capulet.

“Here's hoping you're right,” said Romeo. “Anyway, anything's got to be better than staying here. Help me up.”

Mercutio grabbed his gun, checking the safety was on before shoving it through his belt at his back before getting his arm around Romeo again and helping his friend to stand. Keeping their backs pressed against the wall and ducking low so as not to be seen from the hall below, they began to slowly edge their way around the gallery beneath the cupola.

“Something's going on down there,” said Romeo as the sound of shouts suddenly erupted below.

“Good,” said Mercutio tersely. “Then they'll be keeping their attention on whatever it is down there instead of looking up here. Keep going.”

The shouting increased and then gunfire rang out below them. 

“Are they shooting each other?” asked Romeo, craning his neck to try and see over the rail.

“Never mind them – we're nearly at the door. They can massacre each other and good riddance to the lot of them. Come on now – a few more steps; do you think you can make it?”

Romeo nodded, leaning heavily on Mercutio as the red-head reached for the door handle. The door was locked, and Mercutio groaned in frustration. “Of _course_ it's bloody locked,” he groused. “Hang on.” He pulled the gun out from his waistband and thumbed off the safety. Thankfully with all the noise and racket of gunfire going on down below, though the retort of the gun going off in his hand seemed deafeningly loud up here, the men fighting below were oblivious. The sound of the door splintering under the impact of the burst of semi-auto fire was drowned in the greater tumult from below.

“Come on, let's get out whilst they're still busy,” he said as he gave Romeo his shoulder for support once more and half carried, half-dragged him out onto the roof.

He was almost surprised to find it still daylight outside – somewhere around mid-afternoon, by his reckoning. He'd completely lost track of time. He almost stumbled as the emerged into the fresh air, the sunlight almost too bright after the dimness of the cupola gallery.

Romeo's knees abruptly gave out, nearly dragging them both to the floor.

“Romeo? Come on, don't give up on me now, we're not out of this yet,” said Mercutio as he lowered his friend to the ground, settling himself behind Romeo as they stared out across the rooftops of Verona.

“I'm tired, Mercutio,” sighed Romeo. “I don't think I can make it any further.”

“Come on, just a little more,” Mercutio coaxed him gently. “Just to the roof edge so we can see what's going on, OK?”

Romeo sighed, then nodded. 

Mercutio dragged him as carefully and gently as he could to the edge of the roof then they lay there, panting, in the shadow of the low parapet. After a while Mercutio raised his head slowly and peered over the parapet down to the courtyard below.

He stared down, not sure at first what it was he was seeing, and then slowly the confusion in the courtyard began to resolve itself as he began to pick out familiar uniforms and make sense of what he was seeing.

“Romeo! Romeo, look! Those are Montague forces! Your mother must have gotten wind of what was happening and rallied her own household forces to come support the Prince! Romeo, look, isn't that Benvolio over there? Romeo!” 

He finally glanced down as Romeo didn't respond. His friend half-reclined against the parapet wall, his face white and his eyes closed, a pool of blood slowly spreading beneath him.

“Oh no. No. You are _not_ going to do this to me, do you hear me, Romeo?” He shook his friend with growing alarm. “Romeo? _Romeo!!_ ”

Romeo's head lolled limply; hastily yet gently, Mercutio laid him down then pressed his ear to Romeo's chest, listening for a heartbeat; his own heart was hammering too hard for him to be certain if he could feel Romeo's heart beating or if it were only the roar of his own blood.

Four men burst through the ruined remains of the door; Mercutio spun round, his hand already reaching for his gun, but he checked his movement when he saw they wore the blue of House Montague.

“Oh thank fuck,” he breathed. “Here! It's Romeo Montague, he's hurt!”

“Mercutio Escalus? Aren't you supposed to be dead?” exclaimed one of the soldiers.

“Long story, and Romeo doesn't have the time. We need to get him out of here. Is the palace secured?”

“Yes sir,” answered the soldier as one of the men came forward with a medpack and began checking Romeo's vitals whilst another radioed for assistance. “Our forces are assisting palace security in rounding up what's left of the Capulet scum.”

“And my uncle?”

The soldier shook his head. “Not good I'm afraid. Lady Montague will give you the full situation.”

Mercutio's heart sank.

Medics from the palace medical centre were with them in minutes that somehow felt like hours to Mercutio as he watched his friend slipping slowly away. There was a frantic flurry of activity around Romeo's unconscious body as IVs were administered and they stabilised him, then they rushed Romeo straight through to the palace medical centre. 

As Mercutio stood in the entrance hall beneath the cupola and watched the gurney bearing his friend disappear through the large double doors surrounded by the team of medics, he became aware of the group of soldiers to one side standing guard over two people; as he turned his eyes widened.

Tybalt stood looking pale and exhausted, his arms around Juliet as he rested his cheek atop her head, his eyes half-closed. Juliet's arms were full of cat, Marlowe blinking balefully at the ring of guards. Juliet spotted Mercutio and lifted her head to say something to Tybalt; he remained motionless for a minute then lifted his head to glance over towards Mercutio, his eyes seeking him out. There was something unfathomable behind his green eyes, his face stiff, and Mercutio realised he was standing slightly awkwardly, his weight mostly on one foot, hunched over slightly as though in pain.

Mercutio took a step towards him but at that moment Lady Montague pushed her way past her soldiers towards him. She was dressed in blue combat fatigues, an SMG slung at her side and her hair pulled back into a tight bun. Mercutio knew full well that the battle dress was no affectation on the noblewoman's part; Lady Montague had led her household's troops herself from the moment her late husband was felled by a Capulet's hand fifteen years ago; and though the dark brunette hair was streaked with silver, she was still as formidable an opponent as she'd been the day she led the retaliatory attack that had slain Lady Capulet's brother.

“Lord Escalus,” she greeted him briskly as she stripped off her gloves and held her right hand out to him; he blinked then belatedly realised she was addressing him. It was so rarely that he heard himself addressed by his title that for a moment he'd wondered if his uncle were standing behind him.

“Lady Montague, I must thank you for coming to the timely aid of House Escalus. I am sure my uncle would thank you in person were he able to; I understand he was injured in the attack?” he replied as he took her hand and shook it. Her grip was firm and strong; pretty much what you'd expect from a woman who had ruled single-handed in the viper-nest that was Verona for a decade and a half.

“I fear so, Lord Escalus,” she replied as she inclined her head slightly. “He was wounded leading a squad of the palace troops in a standoff with Capulet forces in the audience chamber. He's in surgery in the palace medical centre – where, I believe, I just saw my son being taken. Tell me, Lord Escalus: how is it that I find you here very much alive, and my son with you? I was under the impression he was in Mantua. And I see the Capulet bitch is alive too – and her dog of a cousin as well. I am very curious as to what has been going on here.” Her sharp tone indicated that though he technically outranked her, she would expect him to give a full report of himself.

Over her shoulder he could see Tybalt bristling, and he wondered if it were at the insult to himself or to Juliet. _Likely the latter._

“No matter; the matter will be simply dealt with by my men, Lord Escalus,” she said breezily as she turned to face the two Capulets and their captors, raising her voice to her men. “Take the Capulet girl to the cells. Erect a gallows outside and hang the Capulet dog.”

“No!” screamed Juliet as two soldiers grabbed her by the arms and began to drag her away from Tybalt as the cat leapt yowling from her arms then streaked away across the floor towards the nearest door. Tybalt began to wrestle with the two men as several others came forward to restrain him; his eyes wild as a look of fury crossed his face, the tall man began to fight like one possessed, silent yet terrifying as he lashed out. From somewhere he produced a pair of knives and two men reeled back clutching throats that blossomed with crimson blood beneath their fingers as they dropped. More men sprang into the fray and Tybalt disappeared beneath a hail of fists and blows as Juliet screamed and screamed.

“Stop! Stop this at once!” bellowed Mercutio as he strode forward. He could hear a roaring in his ears as a cold fury possessed him; as he threw apart two men and pushed his way into the circle he had the distinct impression of another pair of eyes watching through his own. Where once he would have fought it off, now he welcomed Valentine gladly; their two voices spoke as one. “Lord Escalus demands you _CEASE!_ House Escalus, _TO ME!!_ ”

As he forced his way through the crowd of assailants who were still punching and kicking something upon the floor, he was aware of his household troops wading in to break up the melee, the Montague soldiers falling back until Mercutio stood in the middle of a ring of his own men.

Tybalt lay huddled upon the floor, one arm thrown up about his head, a pool of blood slowly spreading beneath his head as it seeped through dishevelled raven black hair. Mercutio bent down and rolled him over; Tybalt sprawled limply upon his back. His face was covered in blood, one eye already puffy and swollen, dark purple bruises mottling his cheek and jaw. Mercutio got his arms beneath Tybalt's shoulders and knees and hefted him up; for all the Capulet's wiry strength, he was surprisingly light.

Mercutio turned to face the men holding Juliet prisoner. “Let. Her. Go. _Now,_ ” he spat, and they jerked away from her, snatching their hands back as though her skin had suddenly become red-hot. She instantly flew to his side, the Escalus troops parting for her then closing rank again as she reached for Tybalt, crying as she smoothed the hair away from his face then cradled his head in her hands.

“Lady Montague.”

“Lord Escalus,” she replied, her voice steady though his sudden actions had evidently unnerved her slightly.

“You are not the authority here; as my uncle's sole nephew and heir, that falls to _me_. Unless you are seeking to stage your own coup as the Capulets and my uncle's _esteemed_ cousin Count Paris just did?” His voice was like ice as he stepped forward to confront her, towering over her, Tybalt limp in his arms and Juliet glaring at the other woman with murderous intent.

“He broke your uncle's edict!” she replied. “The penalty is clear -”

“And _mine_ to enforce or not, as I see fit!” roared Mercutio. _Was the voice that spoke his or Valentine's?_ He couldn't tell. They were both of one mind, their fury shared.

“Captain Morgan.” He did not look around as the commander of his uncle's personal guard stepped forward.

“Sir.”

“Is the palace secured by our forces?”

“Yes sir. All Capulets are either dead or in the cells.”

“Then House Montague is dismissed. You will withdraw immediately. Lady Montague, you will attend me in the audience chamber tomorrow at ten to give a full accounting of yourself and your actions today, do I make myself clear?”

“As my Lord commands,” she murmured as she bowed. “May I ask, what of the Capulets?”

“They will be mine to deal with. I declare a ceasefire in Verona. Whoever breaks it first, their whole House will be forfeit, their rulers executed forthwith, all servants banished from Verona upon penalty of death, and all holdings and property immediately relinquished to the Crown.”

“My Lord,” she whispered, visibly shaken.

“Dismissed.”

Lady Montague turned away, then glanced back. “My Lord, what of my son, Romeo?” The anguish in her eyes was that of a mother.

“He will remain here under my custody and protection. He is too gravely injured to be moved.”

“Let me see him, I beg of you!” she pleaded. “Only for a few minutes!”

“Tomorrow, Lady Montague.” He stared at her implacably until she turned away, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

He watched in silence as the Montague forces withdrew, then turned and strode towards the double doors leading into the palace and headed towards the medical centre, Tybalt limp and bleeding in his arms and Juliet at his side.

They did not speak.


	40. Chapter 40

He heard voices talking nearby as he slowly drifted towards consciousness. He couldn't quite make out what they were saying; his head felt full of cotton wool and it ached, though not in the way it usually did after one of his seizures.

His whole body seemed to ache, come to that; a dull throbbing ache in his thigh, each indrawn breath painful as his ribs burned. His jaw throbbed with each beat of his heart, and he felt as though his body were a mass of bruises. He held still; he had the unpleasant suspicion that uncomfortable as he felt right now, movement might be worse. His mouth felt and tasted as though it were full of metal; an experimental probe of his tongue told him there was some kind of bar affixed inside his mouth.

He could feel his hands were held by other hands; a small, slender and warm hand grasped his right hand, whilst a large cool hand was wrapped around the left.

The voices slowly began to make sense, like the sound of a radio being tuned in slowly.

“... are you going to do about Lady Montague?” _Juliet's voice_.

“No idea, to be honest.” _Mercutio._ This all seemed far too dismally familiar. “Try and ascertain what intelligence she had on the attempted coup, make sure she's not likely to attempt one herself, make it clear both you and Tybalt are under my protection.” Mercutio sighed. “Valentine's always been the diplomatic one, not I.”

“But... Romeo and Benvolio told me about Valentine,” said Juliet slowly. “He's a part of you. Surely that means _you_ have the necessary skills? You're certainly smart enough.”

“Is that what they told you?” Mercutio's voice was dangerously quiet. “He's not a part of me. He possesses me, but we are completely different people with very different skills and personalities. I'm not him any more than he is me.”

“Mercutio... I've read about this. He's just another part of your personality – it's not healthy to keep the two parts of yourself apart like that. There's therapy, drugs -”

 _No. No, Juliet. Don't push him._ He tried to open his eyes, to speak, but his body wouldn't respond. It felt heavy and leaden.

“Drugs? You're talking about destroying him.” There was a cold, hard note to Mercutio's voice. “About killing him.”

“Mercutio, Valentine died five years ago.” Juliet's voice was sad.

“No! No, he's still here. Still with me. You don't understand, _none_ of you understand!” Mercutio didn't raise his voice, but his cold fury dripped from every word as he released Tybalt's hand. Tybalt felt the bed dip as Mercutio leaned on his hand to push himself up out of the chair; Tybalt reached out his hand and gripped Mercutio's wrist as hard as he could, checking his movement. He heard Mercutio exclaim in surprise as he fought to open his eyes. His left eye opened slowly but for some reason he couldn't open the right eye at all. He stared at the white-tiled ceiling and swallowed hard as it felt as though the room were slowly spinning. He glanced down to see both Juliet and Mercutio staring at him. As he blinked at them, his vision ghosted, doubling briefly.

“God, Tybalt, you must have a skull made of iron!” Mercutio exclaimed. “Even cracked it can't keep you down! The doctor swore you'd be out for at least a day.” His face broke into a relieved smile. “You stubborn Capulet.”

He tried to speak but his jaw didn't seem to want to co-operate; it felt like it was somehow fixed closed. He grimaced and tried again.

“How... how long?” he managed through gritted teeth, his jaw stiff and painful.

“You've been out for about -” Juliet glanced up at the clock, then back at Tybalt. “About fourteen hours. It's five in the morning.”

“You shouldn't try to talk,” said Mercutio. “Your jaw was fractured; it's been wired to hold it together.”

Tybalt released his wrist and got his elbow underneath himself as he struggled to sit up.

“Tybalt, you shouldn't -” began Juliet but he waved her away as he managed to drag himself upright against the pillows, his body protesting painfully with every movement. His back felt like it was in spasm, and his head was swimming almost alarmingly as his vision blurred again.

“Like I said – stubborn to a fault,” said Mercutio as he shook his head.

“Not... dead yet,” Tybalt managed.

“At this point I'm beginning to wonder if anything's capable of killing you,” replied Mercutio. Tybalt managed to twitch the corner of his mouth up in a lopsided, mirthless grin.

“What happened?” he asked hoarsely.

“The Montagues happened,” Mercutio sighed as he ran a hand through his already-dishevelled hair. “They kicked seven shades of shit out of you. You've got a fractured skull and jaw, black eye, two broken ribs and bruised kidneys. You're pretty much black and blue all over. Oh, and there's a bullet hole through your thigh, what looks like a graze from another bullet right across your back, and a flesh wound to your right calf – another graze I think. Juliet tells me those were Capulets though?”

“In... crypt,” Tybalt nodded. “Think I was recognised.”

Mercutio nodded. “Lady Montague will be here at ten. I'm going to make it clear that you two are under my protection. She'll likely want to see Romeo afterwards; there'll be an armed escort, but I'll have you moved to another room for your own safety.”

Tybalt shook his head as he pushed himself upright. “No. Want to be there.”

“Tybalt, you can't!” objected Juliet as she tried to push him back down.

“No,” he ground out.

“Wait, Juliet,” said Mercutio. “Tybalt... if you can stand....”

“Try me,” he growled as he stared up at Mercutio from beneath his dark brows, a fierce grin stretching his thin lips.

Mercutio sent for clean clothes for Tybalt; he stared at the black shirt, black brocade waistcoat and the leather trousers and lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. It was the same outfit he'd worn the second time he and Mercutio had ridden out to the mountain ridge; not what he would have chosen to face down Lady Montague but he supposed Mercutio had his reasons. His long leather coat had been cleaned as well.

Dressing was a slow, painful process, even with help from Juliet and Mercutio. He nearly fell when he tried to stand at first, a wave of dizziness washing over him as his vision doubled again before subsiding. Tybalt gritted his teeth and tolerated the discomfort with stoic silence. When Juliet picked up the black silk scarf, he sat on the edge of the bed and unfastened the top two buttons of his collar then tugged it down, baring his scarred throat as Mercutio lifted his hair clear of his neck. Juliet gently wound the scarf around his throat and deftly tied it at the nape of his neck. He slipped two fingers between the scarf and his skin, testing how tight it was, then nodded satisfaction. Mercutio finger-combed his hair into place.

“You're set on being present?” asked Juliet. Tybalt nodded, then glanced over to the other bed in the room. It was curtained off; the quiet steady rhythmic bleeping of a heart monitor audible behind the folds of pastel patterned fabric.

“Romeo?” he rasped quietly; Juliet nodded.

“My uncle is in another room,” added Mercutio; Tybalt checked himself in the act of rising as he glanced at Mercutio, then straightened slowly as he arched an eyebrow in mute query.

“He was wounded fighting off a squad of Capulet forces in the audience chamber,” Mercutio explained. “Pretty bad, though the doctors say he'll make it.”

Tybalt nodded then turned towards the other cubicle and limped towards it. He tugged the curtain open then stared down at Romeo.

Juliet's husband lay unconscious upon the bed. Bandages swathed his torso and right shoulder. An IV snaked into his left arm, and an oxygen mask obscured his mouth and nose. Tybalt glanced at the heart monitor; Romeo's pulse and respiration appeared normal.

“We got unlucky,” said Mercutio as he stepped up beside Tybalt and slung an arm around his waist, seemingly casually, but Tybalt felt him taking a little of Tybalt's weight and was silently glad of the support. He felt decidedly worse for being upright and every step was an uncomfortable effort but he held silent. He was no stranger to pain.

Juliet came to join him on his other side, catching his hand in hers. “The doctors say the operation went fine and he should be up and about in perhaps a week,” she said quietly. “He was asking about you earlier.”

“Why?” he asked quietly.

Mercutio shot him a sharp glance but Juliet seemed to understand he was merely curious. “He saw you after he came around from his operation. He took it poorly when we told him it was Montagues.”

“Not his fault,” said Tybalt stiffly.

“Which we told him, but you know how Romeo is,” said Mercutio then paused. Tybalt merely nodded.

“So I understand,” he agreed quietly.

The doctors were unwilling to let Tybalt discharge himself but let him go after he glared pointedly at them then carried on walking, Mercutio on one side and Juliet on the other. They offered him a walking stick which he ignored, Juliet taking it instead along with a nasal painkiller spray for him. By the time they'd made it halfway to the guest wing, he finally conceded perhaps he needed it after all, accepting it with ill grace.

Even with the support of the stick and Mercutio's arm around his waist, he was sweating and growing exhausted by the time they made it up to his room. Mercutio had steered him away from the stairs leading up the guest wing, instead leading him to an elevator he hadn't known was there, cleverly fitted in to the hallway so that the doors mimicked the wooden panels of the hall. He was grateful to be spared the ordeal of trying to climb the stairs in his present condition. The weakness of his body rankled him, but he doggedly set off down the long hall towards his rooms when the lift doors opened.

He made no mention of it to either Mercutio or Juliet, but he was finding it hard to focus his eyes. Everywhere he looked, he could see a ghostly double image. He fought the urge to shake his head to clear it; somehow he didn't think it would make much difference except to cause himself more pain. 

He couldn't restrain a small sigh of relief however when he was finally able to sink into a chair in the sitting room of his suite. Mercutio disappeared briefly then reappeared with coffee; though Tybalt wasn't capable of eating, he could at least manage coffee, and though he stared at the nasal spray dubiously he dutifully allowed Juliet to administer it and was relieved when it seemed to take the edge off the worst of the pain, dulling it to a tolerable level he could ignore.

After reassuring herself that Tybalt would be fine in Mercutio's hands, she excused herself to return to Romeo, though not before bestowing a very gentle kiss on Tybalt's bruised lips as lightly as she could.

Three hours later, Mercutio sat behind the desk in the audience chamber. He had ordered a chair placed for Tybalt but the tall Capulet ignored it, instead standing just behind and a little to one side of Mercutio's chair, one hand lightly resting on the chair back. The walking stick was leaning against the desk out of sight.

Lady Montague was shown into the chamber precisely upon the dot of ten, her retinue ordered to wait outside though her nephew Benvolio was permitted to accompany her. 

If she was surprised by Tybalt's presence less than a day after receiving a beating at the hands of her guards, her expression betrayed nothing except perhaps or a faint flicker in her eyes as she glanced at Tybalt then returned her attention to Mercutio. She had exchanged her battle fatigues for a dark blue skirt suit.

For his part, Benvolio appeared to be in an embarrassment of discomfort, his gaze flicking all over the chamber – in fact anywhere but at Tybalt or Mercutio. Tybalt's face did not shift from its customary blank mask but inside he drew a certain grim amusement for the guilty expression on Benvolio's face.

“Lady Montague, good of you to join us,” remarked Mercutio quietly. She bowed, as etiquette demanded, her eyes flicking to Tybalt briefly for a moment as she straightened before addressing Mercutio.

“Lord Escalus. I trust your uncle is recovering well after yesterday's incident?”

Mercutio favoured her with a small, tight grin. “Well enough and quite comfortable, Lady Montague; however I fear both yourself and Verona will have to submit yourselves to my rule a while longer. The doctors say Prince Escalus will not be fit to take up his office for at least a couple of weeks.”

“As to that, my Lord -”

Mercutio interrupted her as he lifted a document from the desk before him. “My uncle has dictated a decree declaring me temporary regent in his stead and granting me the necessary authority in his absence,” he announced, holding the decree out towards her.

Lady Montague hesitantly accepted it and then studied it intently for several minutes before slowly laying it back on the desk. “I see,” was all she said.

“Then I trust there will be no more repeats of yesterday's _other_ little incident,” Mercutio smiled coldly. “On that subject, Juliet and Tybalt Capulet are under my protection. Any insult to them will be considered and insult to _me_ and dealt with accordingly, is that clear?”

“Perfectly,” she replied stiffly.

“Good. I'd hate to think of you treating your daughter-in-law less than charitably, after all,” said Mercutio as he leaned back in his chair.

She blinked, her composure slipping. “I'm sorry, did you say...?”

“Daughter-in-law. That _is_ generally the relationship between a woman and the mother of her husband.”

“Romeo... _married_ her? That Capulet bi-” She caught herself just in time as Tybalt glared at her, baring his teeth in a feral grin. It hurt him a great deal to smile like that at her, but he felt every single twinge of pain to be well worth the look on her face as she blanched, faltering before going on. “The, ah, the Capulet girl?”

“She has a name. Juliet. Get used to it; I am sure you will hear your son say it often. He is very enamoured of his new wife and would be most distressed if he were to hear you refer to her in less than amicable tones.” Mercutio narrowed his eyes. “As would I. And I'm sure you do not need me to explain in detail just how _displeased_ her cousin would be. I understand he is very protective of her.”

Tybalt grinned wider and was rewarded by Lady Montague taking a hasty step back, even as he tasted blood upon his tongue. He must make quite the discomforting appearance, he reflected; pale, one eye swollen shut, his jaw mottled with bruises with a line of black stitching along a line that would surely scar, where his jaw had been pinned; yet smiling at her as though she were a small mouse about to be devoured and he a particularly ravenous wolf. He flicked his gaze to Benvolio who also took a step backwards.

Lady Montague took a breath and composed herself with a visible effort. The news that she were now related by marriage to the house of her hated enemy, to the very daughter of the people who had caused the death of her beloved husband, had shocked her to her very core. Tybalt found himself taking a grim pleasure in her distress. Her house had stolen his father from him. Now she was tied to him through Juliet. _Let the old harpy stew on that for a bit._

She turned to Tybalt and inclined her head slightly. “I offer the apologies of myself and my House for your treatment yesterday afternoon,” she said stiffly. “If there is a way we can make amends, you have but to name it.”

“My father's sword,” Tybalt rasped softly.

“Yes, of course, I shall send for it immediately,” she agreed.

Benvolio cleared his throat behind her then went red as all eyes turned to him. “Er, actually, I... took the liberty of bringing it with me,” he said slowly as he pulled open his long coat and produced the rapier. He approached the desk and then held it out to Tybalt. “I'm sorry,” he said quietly. “I never meant any of that to happen.”

“I'll talk to you later,” said Mercutio softly, his voice edged with anger as he stared straight past Benvolio. Benvolio swallowed hard then nodded.

Tybalt accepted back his father's sword, cradling it gently in his hands for a moment before buckling it onto his belt. He adjusted his belt until the weight of the blade settled comfortably at his hip, then straightened again, his face once more motionless.

“An announcement will be made to the press this afternoon at which I shall be announcing the ceasefire. I've put out warrants for the arrests of Count Paris and Lady Capulet. There will be _no_ retaliatory strikes against Capulet forces, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“That is all.”

“My Lord... my son....” Lady Montague raised her eyes to Mercutio's. He was silent for several minutes, merely staring at her as Tybalt fixed her with a stare of his own.

“You may see him for fifteen minutes. My guards will escort you there. Benvolio may go with you. Return here this afternoon; I shall have further questions for you.” He waved her away as a detachment of guards came forward. "Dismissed."

Tybalt remained standing motionless beside Mercutio's seat, his knuckles whitening upon the carved wooden back. Only when the doors swung closed did he allow himself to slump against the chair.

“Sit down before you fall down, you idiot!” exclaimed Mercutio as he twisted round in the chair and caught at Tybalt before he could fall. He pulled him down into his lap; Tybalt didn't have the energy left to complain. He slumped against Mercutio as he sprawled across the other man's lap, letting his head drop down to rest upon Mercutio's shoulder.

“How are you doing?” asked Mercutio quietly. “The truth, now. No more of this whole stoicism thing.”

“Talking hurts,” Tybalt managed. “Head. Aching.” He couldn't see straight, and his mouth was full of the taste of blood. It hurt to breathe, and he wanted nothing more than to rest there in Mercutio's arms and sleep.

“It's OK,” murmured Mercutio gently. “You did really well there. I'm proud of you. Rest, I've got you.”

Tybalt blinked, feeling the stinging prickle of tears behind his eyes at the unexpected praise, a weakness which he could only put down to exhaustion, the pain in his head or perhaps the concussion.. His eyelashes fluttered as he blinked the tears away. He drew a slow, shuddering breath, then closed his eyes.

As he slowly slipped into a light doze, he felt Mercutio's breath upon his cheek.

“ _I love you._ ”

The whisper followed him down into his dreams.


	41. Chapter 41

Mercutio stared down at the document in front of him, trying to make sense of it. He reread the last paragraph again, but it made little more sense than the first four times he'd read it. He laid it down atop one of the other piles of paperwork that covered nearly every square inch of the antique mahogany desk in his uncle's office and swore quietly to himself as he rubbed his hands over his tired eyes, leaning back in his chair with a sigh.

So much damned paperwork, and little of it made any sense to him. He'd never paid much attention to economics and politics in his studies, and now he ruefully wished he'd spent a little more time studying and less climbing trees and getting into trouble with Benvolio. Valentine had always been the scholar, but he wasn't exactly in a position to help Mercutio now.

He glanced up as someone knocked up at the door; it opened as a servant entered bearing a fresh pot of coffee. He sighed then shoved piles of forms and documents aside to clear space for the tray.

“Has my uncle awakened yet?” he asked as the servant poured the coffee.

“I'm afraid not, my Lord.”

“Hmm. And Tybalt? Romeo?”

“Master Tybalt is still sleeping, but Master Romeo has awakened and is asking for you, sir,” answered the servant.

“Tell him I'll be there directly,” replied Mercutio, glad of any excuse to get away from all the damnable paperwork. “Tell my secretary that I am not to be disturbed for the next two hours. The trade agreement papers need redrafting before I can ratify it; that should keep him busy.” The servant bowed then withdrew, leaving Mercutio to stare at the piles of paperwork with a jaundiced eye as he sipped his coffee.

Doubtless Tybalt would have no problems with the administrative minutiae that were one of the less-glamorous sides of ruling Verona; he'd had a very comprehensive education it seemed, and he had both the self-discipline and the eye for detail required of such a boring and tedious task – except of course he was currently sprawled unconscious in his bed, utterly dead to the world. Asking the medics to slip him a tranquiliser shot whilst he slept so he would actually get some decent rest for once had seemed a good idea at the time, but Mercutio sighed ruefully. Maybe he could persuade Tybalt to look at some of them and see if he could make any better sense of the reports than he could – at least once he'd slept and eaten.

He stood up, grabbed the sheaf of papers that he'd been poring over and his mug of coffee, then headed off to visit Romeo.

Being Lord of Verona was proving far more complex and stressful than he could ever have guessed. People were demanding his time and attention at all hours of the day and night – or so it seemed. His time was not his own. He had carried Tybalt to his room (though he would much rather have taken him to his own – Tybalt seemed to be more comfortable in the room he'd been given however) after the tall Capulet passed out in his arms. He'd been surprised to find when he laid him down in the bed that Tybalt's cheeks were marked by the tracks of dried tears; perhaps he had been in more pain than he'd let on. Mercutio had carefully and gently wiped them away with a warm, damp flannel; he would say nothing of it to Tybalt later – he doubted the dark-haired man would appreciate mention being made of his weakness.

He'd sent for one of the doctors, who administered a shot of painkiller and a sedative. The longer Tybalt could sleep the better, Mercutio felt; he'd been running on adrenaline and iron will for far too long. Once the doctor left he had gently undressed him down to his underwear then drawn the covers up over him before sitting with him a little while, simply listening to his slow and even breathing and staring at his face, the lines of care smoothed away in sleep. Tybalt looked younger than his years, his face holding an air of open vulnerability; Mercutio wondered how long it had been since he had let down his guard completely to anyone other than Juliet and, occasionally, Mercutio himself in rare unguarded moments after lovemaking.

He had left Tybalt sleeping and made his way to his uncle's office where it seemed a mountain of administrative paperwork awaited him along with his uncle's secretary, Andreas, who seemed to understand that Mercutio was a stranger to dealing with such minutiae. Andreas had patiently advised and tutored him as Mercutio tried to bring himself up to speed as quickly as he could; but it seemed there was no end to the matters that the ruler of Verona was expected to deal with personally. He wondered just how much more work was dealt with by the team of advisers and clerical staff under his uncle's employ that he didn't see. Being ruler of the city-state of Verona was, it appeared, rather more tedious and boring than he would ever have guessed.

He didn't even get a proper break for lunch; a servant brought him sandwiches and coffee, and Mercutio had carried on working right through lunch until Andreas reminded him of his appointment with Lady Montague. He'd called Captain Morgan, the commander of his uncle's personal guard and the officer in charge of the palace security, to attend upon the meeting and they'd grilled the noblewoman and her security officer for several hours until they were satisfied they knew as much about the Capulet's attempted coup as she did and Mercutio was reassured that not only did Lady Montague have no designs upon the throne herself but, from the report his own intelligence officers slipped upon his desk, the Montagues lacked the resources to even attempt such a coup.

Lady Montague had agreed quite willingly to sign an agreement of mutual support and alliance to House Escalus, formalising what had always been unstated but assumed by all the houses of Verona anyway. He was fairly certain his uncle would have approved, but Mercutio disliked the thought that so much responsibility rested upon his shoulders. Valentine would probably have dealt with it far better; he'd always been the sensible, serious one who paid attention in their lessons together whilst Mercutio had been the despair of all their tutors. 

And now it was to him all the duties, responsibilities and cares had fallen. Oh, he'd known it would come to this one day, but not yet. Not at barely twenty-two, a whole life ahead of him, his uncle not yet fifty. There should have been a good twenty, thirty, maybe even forty years ahead of him; who knows? Modern medical science was a marvellous thing; more and more illnesses and infirmities that once would have slain people before seventy were being vanquished, new discoveries made yearly that drove back Man's reckoning with his Maker for a few more years, a few more decades; more life, hope, dreams and accomplishments before the time came to bid adieu to this world – time enough for a young man to dream of anything other than the day the mantle of dutiful service would settle upon his shoulders.

And yet, he felt it already, and all too keenly. He who had been the dissolute rake – he had returned to that office where the Sisyphean task of wrangling with papers still awaited him, and it was the early hours of the morning before he finally crawled into bed next to the sleeping Tybalt, curled around him and sank into an exhausted and yet restless sleep.

Two weeks, the doctors had said; two weeks before Prince Escalus could lift this mantle from his shoulders, this yoke of duty that burdened him. And yet as Mercutio gladly took this chance to escape from the claustrophobic confines of the office where piles of paperwork threatened to drown him in facts, figures, demands and debts and oweings and decisions to be made that would affect someone's life, a city, a nation that depended on him to find now the wisdom he'd always lacked, those two weeks felt like a sentence of eternity, and guilt weighed him down.

He managed to muster a smile as he tugged back the curtain of Romeo's cubicle, but something of his cares and worries must have shown on his face as Romeo's welcoming smile turned to a look of concern and Juliet rose from her seat beside the bed to step towards him, her hands already reaching for his to guide him to the chair she'd occupied.

“No, I can't take your seat,” he protested, but nonetheless he allowed her to push him down into the soft seat. 

“You look exhausted,” said Romeo as he sat forward, one hand reaching out to take Mercutio's long fingers in his own warm, comforting hand. “Have they been chaining you to a desk and working you half to death?”

“You don't know the half of it,” nodded Mercutio. “I swear I was still working over those bloody tax figures and manifests in my sleep last night, and then they were still waiting for me this morning. Now I know why my uncle's always so grumpy first thing in the morning.”

“Have you eaten yet?” asked Juliet. “I'll go find someone to get you something to eat.”

Mercutio nodded his head. He glanced up at Romeo. “So, how long before they let you up out of that bed?”

“Lonely? I guess Tybalt's brooding presence would be enough to put anyone off,” laughed Romeo. “Not exactly much of a conversationalist, is he?”

“He's sleeping,” replied Mercutio. “He's earned it; he faced down your mother yesterday?”

“Bloody hell, I don't envy him,” remarked Romeo. “I've always tried to avoid that myself wherever possible. What was she here for? She came to visit me briefly yesterday afternoon but she didn't say much.”

“Explaining herself and signing paperwork; I don't see why I should keep all the misery to myself,” grinned Mercutio. Romeo chuckled.

“Juliet's told me some of what happened whilst you and I were dodging Capulets,” said Romeo. “Tybalt had good reason to glare at her. I'm surprised he was capable of it – from the way Juliet described it he sounded practically at death's door.”

“Not far off it,” said Mercutio. “I think he doesn't know the meaning of 'relax'.”

“Mercutio... I have to know. What exactly is going on between you two? You've always hated each other. Why him, of all the people in Verona?” He fixed his friend with a stern look. “And don't come out with that 'you're married and Benvolio's not my type' nonsense; I've never gotten the impression I was your type either, but I never figured Tybalt would be.”

“You never asked,” replied Mercutio wistfully as he sat back in the chair. He suddenly found it hard to meet Romeo's eyes and glanced away.

“What are you saying?” asked Romeo slowly.

“What does it matter what I'm saying? It never really mattered before after all. Everything and nothing, my dear Romeo, and all meaning only that I am the greatest fool in Verona but not so much as he who could never see a thing when it was right under his nose – and there, I've said too much.” Mercutio bit his thumb, worrying at the nail as he stared quite carefully anywhere but at Romeo's face.

“Mercutio, I've always loved you as a brother; you do know that, don't you?” said Romeo quietly. Mercutio's answer was a mirthless bark of laughter.

“And there's the rub, isn't it? I cannot ask any more of you than you have to give, and I cannot give you less of myself than I have – yet there it is; ah well.” He glanced back at Romeo who wore a confused look upon his open, honest face. “Fret not, Romeo; I love you too, as brotherly as you could wish.” He smiled, perhaps a little too brightly.

Juliet returned with a tray and food enough for the three of them; Mercutio took the chance to change the subject as they ate. “So, you didn't answer me – when are these nursemaids going to let you up and about? I may be chained to a desk but surely they can't keep you chained to a bed forever.”

“Tomorrow, they said, if I continue to do as well as I have done. They said something about physiotherapy tomorrow afternoon.” Romeo made a face, and Mercutio laughed.

“If it helps, I dare say Tybalt will share your dismay – he's probably likely to find himself being hauled in for the same, what with his leg and everything else.”

“And I dare say he'll complain less than you as well, Romeo,” smiled Juliet. “I know my cousin too well.”

“Never let it be said that a Capulet outdid a Montague,” retorted Romeo. “Whatever he manages, I'll do double!”

“And put yourself right back in a hospital bed?” replied Juliet drily. “No, I think you'll behave yourself and do just what the therapist tells you – no more and no less.”

“Oh ho, Romeo, your wife has a core of steel – better watch out or you won't be the one wearing the pants between the two of you!”

“What makes you think he has the chance to wear pants between us, Mercutio?” asked Juliet with a small smile. “I'll keep him exercised enough, don't you worry.”

“Oh?” replied Mercutio, then grinned as a blush crossed Romeo's face. “Romeo, I like your wife more and more!”

“Mercutio, _no_ ,” said Romeo firmly.

“Oh hush, I shall behave,” retorted Mercutio, waving him off. “I shall be the very model of decorum!”

Romeo snorted. “That would be a first!”

“You wound me; I am cut to the quick, I swear!” Mercutio clapped his hand to his heart. “Your words have bite, Romeo!”

“Ever playing the goose, Mercutio,” grinned Romeo.

“No, but perhaps a wild-goose chase after wit perhaps – and I have little enough of that left after swimming through a sea of paperwork that I swear will drown me yet.” He shook his head ruefully. “You have more wild goose in one of your jokes than I have in five of mine. Was I even close to you in the chase for the goose?”

“You were never with me for anything if you weren’t there for the goose, Mercutio,” grinned Romeo.

“And that makes me the goose in truth; I should bite your ear for that joke, Romeo,” Mercutio waggled his finger at his friend though he was beginning to smirk. “Geese have teeth, after all.” He rose from his chair and leaned over Romeo, who leaned back, laughing.

“No, no, don't bite me, good goose!” he exclaimed as Juliet giggled.

Mercutio was chuckling as he leaned back. “Your joke tastes very bitter, Romeo, but indeed, you are quite the saucy wit today.”

“Sauce for a sweet goose,” replied Romeo. “We have to fatten you up; you're too skinny for the table yet.” he grinned.

Mercutio grinned in return as he shook his head. “I cannot keep up with you, Romeo; your wit is too fast for me, and there's a mountain of paperwork to slow me down.”

“Then I can only hope I've perhaps lightened your heart if not your load, my friend,” replied Romeo with a fond smile.

“You have that, Romeo,” he nodded as he pulled aside the curtain. “If you'll both excuse me, I hear the call of reams of paper and dry figures beckoning me back to the drudgery of state.”

“Don't work too late, Mercutio,” Juliet chastised him gently as she leaned up and kissed him fondly on the cheek. “I shall come fetch you for dinner and we can dine together here if you like.”

Mercutio lifted a hand to his cheek as he stared down at Juliet for a moment before he found his voice. “Yes, I'd... like that very much,” he said quietly.

He took the stairs up to the guest wing two at a time. He hurried to Tybalt's room and put his head around the door, listening quietly before slipping inside and stealing softly around the bed to look down at Tybalt. He stayed just long enough to reassure himself that Tybalt was still sleeping peacefully and to kiss him gently on the forehead, brushing soft silken strands of hair away from the closed, shadowed eyes, and then he slipped out of the room as silent as he came.

His heart felt much lighter as he returned to the office and his duties.


	42. Chapter 42

Tybalt was getting tired of drifting back to consciousness to find himself somewhere other than where he'd passed out. Invariably it meant a few disjointed minutes where he tried to work out where he was, coupled with the realisation he must have been unconscious for a considerable period of time. Which was happening rather too often for comfort of late, it seemed.

He lay still, trying to work out which bed he had been placed in. It was too comfortable for a hospital bed; he supposed he should be grateful for that small mercy, at least, though his head still ached, it was more tolerable now, his other pains no worse than before, at least. The sheets felt smooth beneath his skin, but not the high thread-count of Mercutio's bed that felt so reminiscent of a hotel bed. His own bed perhaps?

He became aware that he was mostly naked beneath the covers, save for his underwear. And that the hand resting lightly on his thigh was too small and too warm to be Mercutio's.

His eyes snapped open.

He had been correct; he was in his own suite. That, at least, was something of a relief. Mercutio was hunched over the desk in the corner, busy scrawling something on sheets of paper, glancing up from time to time to glance at the chrome and glass tablet in his hand with a frown before reaching for another sheet of paper, staring at the figures, then scrawling something on the paper.

The sight of Mercutio apparently working – and taking it seriously, no less, giving it his full and undivided attention at the desk instead of desultorily poking at it whilst reclining in bed next to Tybalt was so unusual and out of character that it was almost enough to distract him from the anomalous presence of someone's hand upon his thigh.

Almost.

He turned his head upon the pillow and froze as his eyes met those of Juliet. He stared at her, completely at a loss for words, as she smiled at him.

“I was beginning to think you'd never wake up,” she smiled.

Behind her, Romeo sat up, peering over her shoulder down at Tybalt with a sleepy grin, his hair tousled from sleep. “Oh, hello, you're awake!” he said, his smile broadening into a friendly grin.

That was enough to galvanise Tybalt into sudden movement; his hands scrabbled for purchase on the sheets and then he thrust himself hastily away from the couple, heels digging into the mattress for purchase as he ignored the sudden flare of pain in his right leg and the warning twinges from his ribs. Juliet and Romeo sat up with worried looks as Tybalt pressed himself against the carved wooden headboard, only barely checking his instinctive urge to scrabble beneath the pillow for the hilt of his knife as he stared at them, his chest heaving as he panted. He was vaguely aware of Mercutio dropping his pen and rising swiftly to his feet, tossing the tablet onto the desk as he covered the short distance from desk to Tybalt's side of the bed in three long strides.

“Easy, it's just Romeo and Juliet,” he said soothingly as he sat on the edge of the bed and slipped an arm reassuringly around Tybalt's bare shoulders.

“Why?” Tybalt finally managed to rasp hoarsely from between gritted teeth. He blinked as his head protested all the sudden movement, and he pressed a hand to his forehead, suppressing a low groan.

“Romeo's doing well enough that they released him from the clinic,” said Mercutio gently. “He and Juliet were keeping me company whilst I worked.”

“Romeo had a fairly tough physio session a couple of hours ago so he was taking a nap; I figured I may as well join my two favourite men,” smiled Juliet.

“Aw, and there I thought we were getting along so well!” Mercutio pouted.

“Oh, you silly thing, you were working and I didn't want to disturb you!” chided Juliet with a fond look.

Tybalt blinked and lifted his head to stare at Juliet, then Mercutio, then over at Romeo who was still smiling at him in that friendly way. “What the hell is going on?” he whispered. “I'm dreaming.”

Mercutio suddenly pinched his arm and he jerked away, glaring at Mercutio as he rubbed his bicep. “What was that for?” he demanded, his voice hissing between his teeth.

Mercutio shrugged. “You're not dreaming.”

Tybalt continued to glare at him as Mercutio raised his hands and smirked annoyingly at him as he rose then made his way back to his chair at the desk.

“Oh Tybalt, you silly thing. Just relax. It's OK,” said Juliet as she shifted closer to him and slipped her arms around his waist. A distant part of his mind was grateful that she appeared to be fully dressed, at least; as he glanced at Romeo he noted he, too, at least was not in a state of undress. He didn't think he could have handled waking up to the pair of them naked in bed with him. Juliet would have been bad enough ( _but would it? Really? No, he mustn't think of such things_ ) but Romeo as well? He was already beginning to doubt his sanity as it was.

He shook his head. “No. It's not OK,” he muttered as he pinched the bridge of his nose, unconsciously mimicking Mercutio's gesture of a few minutes before. His head was aching too much for this to make any sense. “I need coffee.”

“Of course,” Juliet murmured as she leaned over and kissed his cheek before rising from the bed and heading off to the kitchens in search of coffee.

“I'm sorry, that must have been a bit much to wake up to,” said Romeo as he swung his legs out of bed, straightening and turning to Tybalt as he spread his hands apologetically. “We should have thought, though we didn't expect you to wake up for a while yet.”

“He's too stubborn for his own good,” remarked Mercutio as he glanced up from his paperwork, the tablet's glowing screen bathing his face in a sickly green hue. 

“What are you doing?” muttered Tybalt, feeling surly and yet curious in spite of himself. He swung one long leg out from under the covers then paused. 

Romeo made his way around the bed. “I'll leave you two in peace,” he offered. “Juliet will be back with coffee shortly.” He let himself out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Mercutio set the tablet down as he tossed the pen onto the pile of papers and stood up again, arching backwards as he stretched until his spine popped audibly, then straightening. “Funny thing, that,” he said diffidently as Tybalt slowly rose from the bed then limped over to the chest of drawers to pull out clean clothes. “With my uncle being confined to bed for the next couple of weeks, seems the role of ruler of Verona falls to my unworthy shoulders. And the position is rather less glamorous than I might have expected.”

Tybalt snorted as he pulled on a plain black shirt. “I could have told you that,” he said quietly.

“Yes, well, you never warned me about the paperwork and all the damned writing I'd be expected to do,” complained Mercutio as he wandered over to Tybalt. “I never did have a very good head for facts and figures, but now I'm expected to master economics and accounting and diplomacy and all the rest of this stuff which has me wanting to run away screaming in horror, and they want it all in triplicate and signed in fifteen places and yesterday if you please.” He wrapped his arms around Tybalt from behind and buried his face in Tybalt's hair as the lanky Capulet struggled to balance whilst pulling on a pair of black jeans. Tybalt was grateful for Mercutio's steadying hands as he managed to get his legs into the jeans then tug them up.

“I'm sure it can't be as bad as all that,” he said as he tugged a silk scarf out of the top drawer.

“Here, let me do that,” murmured Mercutio as he reached for the scarf. Tybalt shrugged and lifted his hair out of the way as Mercutio gently wound the scarf around his throat, covering the scars. “You know, they really aren't that noticeable,” he murmured in Tybalt's ear as his hands came to settle on the other man's shoulders, gently yet firmly turning Tybalt to face his own reflection in the full-length cheval mirror. “The scars, I mean. I doubt anyone would really notice them or know they're there.”

“I would still know,” murmured Tybalt softly. “I can't forget them.”

“Forgive me,” murmured Mercutio softly as he pressed a kiss to Tybalt's temple. Tybalt closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax a little into Mercutio's arms. It was with reluctance he finally straightened, opening his eyes as he pulled away.

“Come on, show me what is so terrible about this paperwork,” he remarked as he headed towards the desk. Mercutio followed him with a delighted grin.

When Juliet and Romeo peered around the door a short while later, Tybalt was sat at the desk as Mercutio leaned on the back of the chair, listening attentively and nodding as Tybalt gestured at the tablet then wrote something on the sheet of figures before him. “You see now?”

“It was staring me in the face all along,” groaned Mercutio. “I told you I have no head for this kind of thing.”

“You should have advisers for this kind of thing,” remarked Romeo as he handed Mercutio a mug of coffee.

“I have; he's called Tybalt!” grinned Mercutio. Tybalt glanced up at him from beneath his dark eyebrows, but the look lost something of its severity when his lips stretched in a small, tight yet humorous smile. He accepted the cup of black coffee from Juliet, turning and kissing her briefly on the cheek as she smiled delightedly though his eyes never left Mercutio.

He took a sip from the coffee then set the mug to one side as he caught sight of something that didn't look quite right on one of the draft trade agreement papers. He frowned, tapping his lip thoughtfully with his pen, then drew the tablet back to him, his fingers nimbly scrolling through screens of data until he found what he sought. His eyes narrowed, and then he began to scrawl a few calculations, then grinned.

This was familiar work. He'd sat in on his uncle's negotiations with other Houses, merchants and black-market traders on illicit deals and under-the-table trading that he'd picked it up swiftly himself, and it hadn't been long before Lord Capulet had started leaving some of the more mundane transactions and dealings to Tybalt. Over time he'd gotten very good at ferreting out the hidden unfavourable clauses in contracts; he knew all the little tax dodges and money-laundering tricks common to every major player in Verona and Mantua. Once you knew how the system ran it was easy to spot the loopholes.

He pored over the papers, making notes on manifests, statements, reports and sets of accounts. He circled anomalous figures, calling up the relevant data on the tablet as he went. He was dimly aware of someone taking each document as he finished it, setting them in different piles. He scanned each contract carefully, noting amendments to be sent back to the Prince's legal department for redrafting; others he set aside for Mercutio to sign, a small neat cross beside each place.

Someone placed a fresh mug of coffee at his elbow; he drank absently as he worked, oblivious to the passage of time. At some point a large glass of some beige-coloured drink was pushed into his hand; he stared at it.

“Protein shake. It'll be a while before you can eat properly,” Juliet told him. He shrugged and drank it down, barely noticing the bland flavour, his mind preoccupied with figures and legal clauses; barely had the empty glass been taken from his hand than he was reaching for the next document.

He reached for another then glanced up in mild surprise as his hand closed on nothing, fingertips brushing the polished wood of the desk. 

“That's quite enough for today,” smiled Mercutio as Tybalt slowly straightened then winced as his spine cracked loudly. He stiffened as he felt large warm hands come to rest on his shoulders.

“Relax,” said Romeo from behind him as his thumbs pressed into his back directly between his shoulderblades. Tybalt was about to speak but then Romeo pressed his thumbs into the tight knot of muscle as his fingers flexed into his shoulders and Tybalt could only groan as he felt the tight muscles unknot a little. Romeo set to work on Tybalt's back, and all he could do was slump forward and rest his head upon his forearms as he felt the tightly-wound muscles slowly relaxing under the firm ministrations of Romeo's hands.

“He's good at that,” remarked Mercutio; Tybalt merely hummed in agreement then winced as Romeo's fingers unerringly found a particularly hard and painful knot. His hissing indrawn breath was exhaled in a low groan as the knot dissolved under Romeo's hands.

Romeo chuckled quietly then slipped his hands beneath Tybalt's arms and pulled him up. “Come on; come lie on the bed, it'll be easier to work on you there.”

Tybalt wanted to object to being manhandled so, but he was tired and the prospect of lying down was very tempting indeed. He sank down onto his stomach on the soft bed and couldn't even muster a grunt of protest as Mercutio stripped his shirt off his back. He felt Romeo's warm hands lightly brush over his bruised ribs and the graze across his back.

“Are these painful?” asked Romeo gently; Tybalt managed to shake his head, then buried his face in the pillows as Romeo ran his hands firmly yet gently down Tybalt's back.

The room was warm, he was comfortable, and he was oh, so very tired. His eyes were aching from too long spent staring at the screen and columns of figures; it was a relief to close them. Perhaps it was unsurprising that he felt himself begin to slowly drift into sleep, more relaxed than he remembered feeling in a long time.

He was vaguely aware of being rolled over at some point, someone lifting him slightly to rest against a warm chest; the scent of violets came sweetly to his nose as he felt Juliet snuggle up to him, her slender arms slipping around his waist as she rested her head in the hollow between his shoulder and his chest. It seemed entirely natural and normal to rest his arm around her. Then he felt someone settle between his thighs, resting their head upon his abdomen; he reached down with his free hand and his fingers touched tousled soft hair. He opened his eyes and glanced down, confused, and realised it was Mercutio.

He stared down at him uncomprehendingly, then at Juliet, trying to work out whose chest it was he was reclining against; and then Romeo chuckled behind him, his voice rumbling deep in his chest and vibrating against Tybalt's back. 

He must have made some small sound of alarm as he stiffened; Romeo must have felt him tense, because his warm hand rose to rub comforting circles over Tybalt's shoulder. “It's alright,” he said gently. 

Juliet glanced up at him then sat up straighter against him, turning his face towards her with a gentle hand before kissing him softly upon his lips then leaning up to kiss her husband, even as Mercutio pushed himself up on his hands and knees to crawl up towards Tybalt and claim his lips as gently as he could in turn. Juliet turned to Mercutio and to Tybalt's shock, he kissed her lightly on the cheek as a brother might. Then Mercutio leaned up and he and Romeo kissed before Mercutio sat back with an uncharacteristic bashful look, dropping the blue gaze of his eyes to one side before glancing up a trifle hesitantly at Tybalt from beneath his mop of dishevelled ginger hair.

“I'm dreaming,” breathed Tybalt as he stared at Mercutio in shock. Mercutio shook his head slowly. Tybalt blinked, confused.

“Valentine?” he guessed. Mercutio laughed and ran a hand through his hair.

“No, it's me,” he said with a rueful laugh.

“I... don't understand,” Tybalt whispered as Juliet gently stroked his hair back from his face.

“Hush, it's OK,” she murmured. “It's alright. I know you love him; and I know you love me too.”

He turned his head to stare at her, and she smiled reassuringly at him. 

“And he and... Romeo?” he asked softly.

“It seems Mercutio has always had rather more than... brotherly feelings for me,” said Romeo quietly. “Me being the typical unobservant idiot that I am, I only finally put two and two together when my dear wife pointed out the bloody obvious to me.” 

Tybalt glanced at Mercutio. “You and....”

“We're just fond of each other, Tybalt,” said Juliet with a smile. “He loves you very much, as do I; and he and Romeo were close long before I even came along.” She tilted his face back towards her. “But it's just a fondness between us – at least for now.” A twinkle in her eyes hinted it might not remain only a fondness as she gently kissed his nose. “I love Romeo, but I also love you. And Romeo agrees.”

“Agrees?” echoed Tybalt, lost in her eyes.

“To share. As does Mercutio.”

“I don't... understand,” faltered Tybalt.

“I think you're going to have to spell it out for him, Juliet,” smiled Romeo as Mercutio gave him an odd, lopsided grin.

“We'd like to share. If, that is, you'd like to?” she asked him gently.

His mind reeled as he tried to take in what she was asking. He, with both Juliet and Mercutio? She, with both himself and Mercutio? And it seemed Mercutio and Romeo had something between them as well.

“Wait -” he started upright and turned to Romeo. “Would that mean....”

“No, no,” said Romeo hastily. “Nothing has to happen that you don't want. But... I would like if we could be friends, at least.”

Tybalt put a hand to his head, dizzy. “I... can't think straight,” he breathed. “This is....” he glanced up at Mercutio just in time to see him wipe a look of vague disappointment off his face to be replaced by a look of contrite concern.

“Are you alright?” he asked gently. “Maybe you need a little time to think it over.”

“Yes,” said Tybalt, nodding slowly. “I need to think.”

“We understand,” said Juliet gently as she kissed him upon the cheek then slipped out of the bed. “We'll leave you to rest; you've had a tiring day and you should sleep.”

Romeo nodded as he extricated himself from behind Tybalt, leaning forward to kiss Mercutio again before joining his wife at the door. They glanced back to give Tybalt and Mercutio a smile then withdrew, closing the door behind them.

Tybalt fell back upon the pillows with a low groan as he rubbed his eyes. He felt Mercutio stretch out upon the bed next to him and opened his eyes to look up at him as Mercutio leaned on his elbow, his other hand stroking gently up Tybalt's sternum towards his throat. Tybalt caught his wrist before he could touch the silk scarf covering the scars.

“Was this your idea?” he whispered hoarsely. Mercutio shook his head.

“It was Juliet who suggested it, after she pointed out to Romeo what I'd been trying to tell him myself in my own, inept way for far too long,” he answered gently. “After knowing him so long I should know by now that he can't take a hint to save his life. And since you told her you loved her... well, she'd always loved you, you know, but you were so good at hiding your feelings from everyone that she had no idea.”

Tybalt blinked. All these years he thought his feelings were entirely one-sided and unrequited; to know that she had thought the same? 

He turned away, unable to speak, unable to even think coherently. 

He felt Mercutio draw the covers up over him then spoon against his back, wrapping an arm around Tybalt as he nuzzled his face into the hair at the nape of Tybalt's neck.

“You don't have to do anything you don't want to do,” said Mercutio gently. “We can go on exactly as before if that's what you want.”

“You love Romeo,” whispered Tybalt, uncertain how he felt about that.

“But I also love you,” replied Mercutio gently. “I don't want to do anything to hurt you – and nor do Juliet or Romeo. Sleep on it, take your time.”

Tybalt stared into space for a long while before slowly nodding.

“I'll think on it.”


	43. Chapter 43

Tybalt turned out to be a remarkably efficient administrator, and within a few days the palace staff became used to his new role. During meetings in the audience chamber he would stand a little to the side and behind Mercutio's chair, dressed all in funeral black, one hand resting almost absently on the hilt of his father's sword as he regarded the petitioners blankly. Mercutio had no idea just how it was that Tybalt was able to stand absolutely motionless for the three to four hours some sessions would run to, but the effect upon the petitioners was quite pronounced. His advisers had told him of the rumours that flew through Verona, speculating about the young Lord Escalus' personal bodyguard. It was undoubtedly his unnerving demeanour that caused some audiences to be briefer than perhaps the petitioners had intended as they rushed through their business in an effort to get away from that flat emotionless gaze that seemed to note every breath, every footstep, every nervous twitch until they withdrew gratefully from his presence.

What they would have said could they have seen Tybalt in the council chambers afterwards where Mercutio met with his advisers, Mercutio could not have said. Tybalt would sit quietly near Mercutio, fingers dancing lightly across the touchscreen of his tablet as they discussed the day's business. Each report or document handed to Mercutio for his perusal would be glanced at briefly before he handed it to Tybalt; soon, they were handing the papers directly to Tybalt who accepted them silently with a slight nod, his steady green gaze scanning the small text rapidly as his fingers sketched arcane shapes across the screen. 

Occasionally he would look up and speak, and the privy council fast learned to fall silent as they leaned forward to catch the words uttered in that low, rasping whisper. His comments were concise and insightful, his questions direct and to the point, his advice sound. Mercutio was glad to have Tybalt by his side. By the end of the first week, even Andreas, his uncle's secretary, was deferring to Tybalt. It was a side to Tybalt that even Mercutio could not have guessed at. Now it was Mercutio who would fall asleep waiting for Tybalt as the taciturn Capulet worked late into the night collating figures and data for reports, assessing each fragment of intelligence and news that crossed the desk of the Prince of Verona.

And there was disquieting news to contend with; both Lord and Lady Capulet had fled the city even before the warrants for their arrest had been issued, and Count Paris had gone to ground. The guard reported back that the Capulet mansion had been found deserted, as though the whole household had fled with little more than the clothes on their backs and a few items of value – which included computers and paperwork, to Mercutio's annoyance. Not all had fled however; a valet by the name of Peter had been found hiding in one bedroom together with a mature woman past middle age. They were brought back to stand before Mercutio, where the valet stared up at Tybalt white-faced as though he had seen a ghost, and the woman let out a ghastly shriek before fainting.

Mercutio stared down at the pair and began to rise to his feet but to his surprise, Tybalt was already moving. His eyes were fixed on the young man as he moved past Mercutio, his eyes widening in disbelief. He leapt down the steps of the dais swiftly, coming to a halt before the man as he lifted his hands to grip the terrified man's arms. Mercutio called for medics, glancing from the unconscious woman to Tybalt and the young man.

“Peter!” he whispered.

“M-master! But – how? They said you were dead!”

Tybalt shook his head slowly. “A ruse. I lived,” he rasped quietly through gritted teeth.

“Your voice, Master Tybalt... what happened to you?” asked Peter wonderingly. In answer, Tybalt tugged the silk scarf down with a jerk of his hand.

“Tybalt, this man is known to you?” asked Mercutio as he descended the steps slowly. Two medics ran into the audience chamber; he waved them over to the woman as he approached Tybalt and Peter. 

Tybalt nodded. “My valet,” he whispered.

“Peter, was it?” asked Mercutio; Peter nodded, nervously. “And the woman?”

“Juliet's nurse,” replied Tybalt before Peter could speak.

The medics were reviving the nurse; Tybalt took a step towards her then halted, glancing back at Mercutio, a rare look of indecision upon his face.

“Go fetch Juliet,” said Mercutio quietly. “Bring both her and Romeo to my private office.”

Tybalt nodded, and left the hall swiftly as Mercutio turned back to regard the nurse as she was assisted to her feet.

“Oh, do forgive me, my Lord; though we'd all heard of your miraculous survival, seeing Master Tybalt there like that – we thought we were seeing a ghost!” she breathed. “Didn't we, Peter?” She reached out a hand towards the young valet.

“I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me,” agreed Peter. “I never dreamed I'd see the Master alive and breathing, right in front of me like that.”

“But then who was buried in the family tomb?” gasped the nurse as she clung to Peter's hand, staring at Mercutio anxiously as he turned and retraced his steps back up to his chair and seated himself once more.

“A very good question,” answered Mercutio. “One which I, too, would like to know the answer to.” He turned and gestured to Andreas, who hurried over, climbing the steps to the chair and bowing his head as Mercutio turned to murmur to him. “Arrange an exhumation order for the Capulet tomb. I want to know exactly whose body is in that crypt and how they died. Inform the chief of police that we may have a murder investigation on our hands. Speak to Tybalt; he may have a key to the Capulet crypt.”

Andreas nodded and retreated back down the steps without a word.

“Peter, it seems my...” Mercutio paused; how should he refer to Tybalt? He was more than an adviser, more than a bodyguard; _lover_ seemed too brazen and scandalous a term to use publicly just yet however, even if it were true. “My... _companion_... you served him well? Faithfully?”

“Peter served him loyally and true, Master Mer- that is to say, Lord Escalus,” the nurse caught herself belatedly. “Master Tybalt never had a word of complaint about his service.”

Mercutio raised an eyebrow at her. “Can Peter not speak for himself?” he asked pointedly. She blushed and ducked her head as Mercutio glanced to the valet.

“It is my pleasure to have served Master Tybalt for five years, my Lord, and my loyalty is to him alone.”

Mercutio raised one eyebrow. “He can be... difficult to get along with, can't he?” he said, a faint smile flickering across his lips. “I'm sure it hasn't _always_ been a pleasure... has it?” 

Peter nodded ruefully without thinking. “He _can_ be prone to dark moods, it's true,” he agreed, before suddenly realising where he was and to whom he was speaking. “But he always treated me as I deserved, sir, and the way he was treated by his uncle -”

“I am quite aware of how he was treated, Peter,” said Mercutio, a note of ice creeping into his voice. “Rest assured he will never be treated that way again so long as I draw breath.”

Peter bowed to him. _Damn, I am never going to get used to people doing that._ Mercutio frowned, uncomfortable, as he shifted from one foot to the other. “Yes, well, if Tybalt will vouch for you then you may join the staff here if such is your wish, and you may serve him again.”

“Yes, sir, thank you sir!” exclaimed Peter with a thankful look. Mercutio gestured, and a butler approached.

“See this boy to the servant's wing and have Andreas check out his background, any criminal record or past convictions, references, the works,” Mercutio murmured to the man. “If all checks out and Tybalt vouches for him, have him fitted with uniform and assigned as Tybalt's valet – but only once Tybalt gives the word, am I clear?”

“Yes sir,” nodded the butler then gestured for Peter to follow him as Mercutio turned and beckoned to the nurse.

“There is someone else you should see,” he said gently, and he led her away.

 

***

 

The nurse had gone into hysterics when Tybalt entered the office leading Juliet by the hand, her husband a step behind. Tybalt had stared at her, nonplussed, as Juliet threw herself into her nurse's arms and they hugged each other tightly – the woman who had thought dead the child she had raised, that she had seen with her own eyes lain in the Capulet tomb; and the girl who had been raised by a woman who had been more of a mother than her own had ever been, whom she had feared never to see again. The tears turned to laughter and then to tears again; Mercutio felt quite exhausted merely watching the great drama of outpouring emotion before him.

From the expression on Tybalt's face, he was equally discomforted, if not more so. For a man who was so reserved himself, such extremes were no doubt alien and unnerving. He folded his arms and leaned against the frame of the large window that stood behind Mercutio's desk, staring down into the courtyard below.

Only Romeo seemed unfazed by the women's weeping and – in the case of the nurse – near-hysterics; after the worst appeared to be over, he hugged them both and spoke to them quietly until slowly, by degrees, the nurse was calmed down and both she and Juliet persuaded to sit down together on the small leather couch, Romeo perching on the end of the couch where he could hold Juliet's hand and stretch his other arm along the back of the couch to rest his hand comfortingly on the nurse's shoulder.

Mercutio glanced up and gave the nurse a reassuring smile. “Well now, this is an unexpected reunion! All we need is Benvolio and we shall have quite the little gathering!”

“Have you forgiven him yet?” asked Romeo.

“No,” rasped Tybalt from behind Mercutio, not looking away from the window. 

“Tybalt, what has happened to your voice dear?” asked the nurse worriedly. “You look so pale and stiff!” She turned to Juliet. “He's not been eating properly, has he? Too much drink I'll warrant, and on an empty stomach too no doubt -”

“ _Peace_ , woman!” hissed Tybalt between gritted teeth as he turned to stare at her.

“Tybalt!” said Juliet reproachfully as the nurse sniffed loudly.

“Well, being dead certainly hasn't improved your manners any, young man!” she admonished him. Mercutio snorted and had to clap a hand over his mouth to stifle the laughter that threatened to burst out; he didn't need to glance behind him to know that Tybalt must be glaring at him. He could practically _feel_ the balefulness of his stare as the nurse carried on blithely. “And speak up, we can barely hear you! You know old Nurse is getting half-deaf these days.”

“Nurse, he _can't_ speak up,” said Juliet gently. “His jaw's been broken, and his throat – well....” she glanced up at Tybalt worriedly, and held a hand out towards him with an apologetic look.

Tybalt sighed very quietly then made his way around the desk to take Juliet's hand. He stared down at the nurse and tugged the silk scarf down sharply, baring his scarred throat once more as he glanced away.

“Oh. Oh! Oh you poor dear, who did that to you?” exclaimed the nurse.

Romeo cleared his throat uncomfortably. “That would have been me,” he admitted awkwardly. Tybalt turned his head to glance at Romeo before releasing Juliet's hand and walking back around the desk to lean against it next to Mercutio and stare out the window once more, his gaze distant as he folded his arms again.

“It's a long story,” Romeo was saying as Mercutio stared up at Tybalt. He gently patted Tybalt's knee, and Tybalt glanced down at him. Mercutio held his hand out wordlessly, and Tybalt took it before exhaling slowly and silently.

“I won't ask if you're alright; I can see you're not,” Mercutio said quietly. Tybalt nodded silently; Mercutio gave his hand a gentle squeeze then rose. 

Romeo and Juliet broke off from explaining all that had happened since the duel in the piazza to the nurse, turning to glance at Mercutio.

“Much though I'd love to stay for this reunion, unfortunately I can't,” he said with a shrug and a _you know how it is look_ ; Romeo gave him a sympathetic look in return.

“They keep you practically chained to that desk; you'd think they could spare you for a couple of hours,” he remarked. Tybalt snorted very quietly and Mercutio squeezed his hand again before letting go.

“Nurse, I'm glad we meet again under happier circumstances than the last time. Please excuse me; there are papers that require my attention whilst my uncle remains indisposed. Perhaps you will join us for dinner later?” He inclined his head slightly then withdrew from the room, Tybalt trailing a couple of steps behind him like a particularly tall and broody ghost.

Tybalt drew level with him when instead of turning back towards the audience chamber or the council chamber, Mercutio's feet took him instead towards the guest wing. Tybalt said nothing, but the arch of his eyebrow as he glanced at Mercutio was question enough.

“I'm tired of paperwork and petitions and drudgery,” said Mercutio irritably. “I need fresh air, and so do you.”

“Where?” asked Tybalt in his quiet whisper, and Mercutio grinned. Now this was more like it. Romeo and Juliet would have both objected to Mercutio leaving the palace, and were he and Benvolio still on talking terms then doubtless he would have been doing his best to talk Mercutio right out of whatever wild scheme he may have dreamed up this time. But Tybalt would not seek to waste what little voice he had on futile attempts to reason with him; he only wished to know where they were going. Mercutio was fairly certain Tybalt wouldn't have let him go alone, but then he;d had no intentions of leaving him behind anyway.

“Come on,” grinned Mercutio.

Fifteen minutes later the Vincent Black Shadow roared out of the subterranean car park and out onto the main road, weaving in and out of the mid-morning traffic before Mercutio opened up the throttle and headed for the highway that led to the mountains.

Glancing into the wing mirror he could see Tybalt leaning back, eyes closed as his hair streamed away behind him, and he was laughing for the first time since Mercutio could remember.

And Mercutio laughed.


	44. Chapter 44

Tybalt lay on his back, Mercutio's arm around him, and stared up at the blue sky.

“We haven't done this in far too long,” mused Mercutio; Tybalt hummed in agreement. He felt no need to talk; the sun was warm upon his body, and he felt fairly relaxed and content.

Mercutio shifted a little so he was leaning on his elbow and looking down at Tybalt, who gazed up at him questioningly. Mercutio lifted a hand to gently trace the thin line that wound from the right corner of Tybalt's mouth down to the curve of his jaw where the stitches had been removed a few days previously. His mouth was no longer full of metal and technically he was able to speak again without having to force the words through gritted teeth, but the jaw was still stiff and ached a little now and then, and he'd lost the habit of casual speech.

“That's going to leave a scar,” said Mercutio quietly. Tybalt frowned a little. “Oh, it doesn't bother me,” Mercutio added hastily to reassure him. “In fact, it gives you a slightly rakish air.”

Tybalt arched an eyebrow at him sceptically, and Mercutio grinned.

“You're in a rare good mood,” Tybalt whispered as he lifted a hand to brush a stray lock of ginger hair out of Mercutio's eyes. “Your hair is getting long,” he added absently.

“It needs a cut,” Mercutio said ruefully. “Unless you like it longer?”

Tybalt shrugged; it was Mercutio's hair, not his own, and as far as he was concerned Mercutio could do with it as he wished. 

Mercutio sat up and stretched. “I _feel_ in a good mood,” he confessed. “Everything's been so damned serious since the fight. I feel like I'm becoming someone different – someone more serious and boring.” He pulled a face. “It's not me. I hate what being ruler of Verona is turning me into.”

Tybalt sat up beside him and regarded him thoughtfully. “Your uncle should be able to take over soon,” he pointed out quietly.

“Yes,” agreed Mercutio as he ran a hand through his hair. “But he's still not strong, and he'll need me to continue running most things for a while yet.” He sighed. “I'm twenty-three now, Tybalt, but sometimes I feel twenty years older. Do you know, I actually found a white hair this morning? A white hair!”

Tybalt stared at him, trying to pick out one stray white hair against the fiery hues of Mercutio's hair which seemed to blaze in the sunshine. He shrugged. “I can't see it,” he whispered. 

“I plucked it out,” Mercutio shrugged, then grinned. “I confess I am a shallow, vain creature at times, it's true.” He darted a sideways glance at Tybalt then grinned. “But you love me anyway.”

“Mmm,” said Tybalt noncommittally. Mercutio twisted round to face him, drawing his long legs up to sit cross-legged as he stared at Tybalt.

“You know, I don't think I've ever heard you say it,” he said suddenly.

Tybalt glanced at him with a small frown. “Say what?” he whispered.

“That you love me. I've said it to you, but I've never heard you say it. Go on.”

Tybalt's frown deepened as he stared at Mercutio, then he dropped his gaze to one side, uncomfortable under that intense blue gaze.

Surely he had said it? At least once? And yet, racking his brains, he realised he couldn't recall ever having said it. He was aware of Mercutio's eyes on him, the other man's face falling as Tybalt remained silent.

“You don't love me,” murmured Mercutio sotly. Tybalt's head jerked up and he stared back at Mercutio.

“I do,” he whispered.

“Then why can't you say it?” blurted out Mercutio.

“It... does not come easily to me,” confessed Tybalt, his throat constricting. He felt deeply uncomfortable. He had never felt the need to examine what it was they had between them; it merely _was_ , like the air they breathed or the sun in the sky that warmed them both. But talking of his emotions had never come easily to him, particularly the gentler ones. Yet as Mercutio continued to stare at him, he lifted his eyes to meet Mercutio's gaze as he softly said, “I love you.”

Mercutio's face split into a delighted grin and he reached out to grasp the front of Tybalt's shirt, drawing him towards him. Tybalt caught himself, splaying his hands upon the ground either side of Mercutio as the red-haired man pulled him in to kiss him lightly upon the lips. Tybalt closed his eyes as his lips parted, and he felt Mercutio's tongue probe them gently, and then firmly as he claimed Tybalt's mouth hungrily, like a starved man. He released on hand from Tybalt's shirt to slip it behind his shoulders, and then Tybalt found himself being forced back down upon the ground as Mercutio shifted astride him, moaning as he kissed Tybalt long, hard and deep, only finally pulling away to breathe.

“You have no idea how long I've waited to hear you say that,” Mercutio panted as he stared down at Tybalt. Tybalt could only gaze up at Mercutio, gasping as he caught his own breath. “I want to marry you,” Mercutio added unexpectedly.

Tybalt blinked. Some look of surprise or alarm must have crossed his face, because Mercutio laughed. “Oh, not right now, you goose!” He straightened and tugged Tybalt upright. “But I do want it.”

Tybalt stared at him, not sure what to make of his proposal. Marriage? He'd never really given it much thought. He'd always known he wouldn't be permitted to marry Juliet, and with her wedding to Romeo she'd been put legally beyond his reach – at least in that sense, anyway – and he had never thought of marriage to another, not even a man, even though such marriages were commonplace these days, particularly between the younger scions of other noble Houses who were still of use for forging alliances, even if they stood little chance of inheriting anything. As only a lowly nephew and not even a second child of Lord Capulet, he'd always assumed he would never marry.

And he'd never thought of Mercutio as the marrying type at all, even though as Prince Escalus' only living heir he supposed sooner or later some fitting political match would have been made for him with some suitable high-born young lady of one noble House or another. Had Lady Montague ever had a daughter, undoubtedly it would have been her, or possibly the daughter of the Prince of Mantua or perhaps Padua – being equidistant between Milan and Venice, Verona had long stood aloof between the two principalities but with rising tensions between them both Prince Escalus had come under increasing pressure to declare for one or the other, and Padua was openly allied with the latter. It would have made political sense to marry Mercutio off to Antonia of Padua.

“Just promise me you'll think on it,” said Mercutio, quietly. “Please.”

It seemed he was being much to think on of late. He could only nod his head.

“I'll think on it,” he whispered.

He did not think it would be as simple as giving his consent however. Prince Escalus would no doubt have much to say on the matter.

They returned to the palace to find it in something of an uproar; they'd been gone some four hours, and their absence had not gone unnoticed.

“His Highness the Prince has requested you attend upon him, sir,” said Andreas as he confronted them at the foot of the staircase to the guest wing. He glanced at Tybalt as he added, “Both of you.”

Tybalt and Mercutio exchanged glances, then Tybalt schooled his face into a neutral expression as he dropped a step behind and followed Mercutio. Such a summons could not bode well; likely Mercutio was in for a chastisement, and no doubt he would be castigated too. For his own part, he was already prepared to accept whatever punishment the Prince may have deemed necessary; it was unlikely to compare to that which he'd frequently experienced at the hands of his own uncle.

He'd not laid eyes upon the Prince since being brought to the palace; though Mercutio had visited him daily, he had made those visits alone. Tybalt could not escape feeling a certain trepidation as they were led towards Prince Escalus' extensive suite of rooms. They were led into an antechamber and directed to wait there.

Mercutio had never been a patient man or found waiting to be easy. He began to pace, looking agitated. Tybalt watched him, feeling his air of nervous energy infectious until he began to feel a certain foreboding and dread himself. The time dragged on, Mercutio's constant pacing and the way he drummed his fingers against his thigh steadily wearing upon his nerves. 

He was about to snap at Mercutio and tell him to stop when one of the doors to the inner chamber opened and one of Prince Escalus' advisers appeared, gesturing at Mercutio to enter. Tybalt took a step towards the door out of habit then stopped as the adviser held up his hand. Mercutio glanced back at Tybalt uncertainly, then followed the adviser. The door clicked shut behind them both, and Tybalt was alone.

It was Tybalt's turn now to pace, biting absently at a loose bit of skin at the side of his thumbnail as he stalked across the chamber floor, his boots rapping out a staccato rhythm that echoed from the walls. There were no chairs, but he would have been to restless to sit had there been any.

The sound of raised voices came from the other room, causing him to pause, before he found himself drawn slowly towards the large wooden double doors in spite of himself.

“...you are my nephew and heir and it is past time you began to behave like one, Mercutio!” The voice of the Prince raised in anger was unmistakable.

“What the hell do you _think_ I've been doing these past two weeks? Sitting on my arse twiddling my thumbs? I've done _your_ work for you as I was expected and obliged to do! I've worked dawn till midnight, and Tybalt has done that and more! I am sick and tired of trying to match up to your expectations only to fall short every damn time!” Mercutio's voice was only slightly short of a scream. “I am not Valentine! I will never be Valentine! Stop trying to make me what I'm not!”

Tybalt closed his eyes as he pressed his forehead against the door. He knew only too well the desperation of always falling short.

The voices had dropped; Tybalt had to strain to hear what they were saying.

“Sit down. Breathe.” The Prince's tone of voice had changed; was that a note of concern?

“I can't. I can't keep doing this. You're killing him.”

“Valentine, I do it because I must.”

_Valentine?_

Tybalt found himself thrusting the doors open in spite of himself, inwardly afraid of what he might find.

Mercutio was huddled on the floor, his arms wrapped around himself as he knelt at the Prince's feet, head lowered. The Prince turned and stared at Tybalt as he entered, his eyes narrowing at the sudden intrusion, but Tybalt only had eyes for Mercutio. He came to a halt as Mercutio turned his head slowly and peered up at him from behind his hair. 

It was Valentine who regarded him warily. He could tell that at a glance.

They stared at each other as the Prince glanced between them, and then he took a step towards Tybalt and grasped him by the arm in a vice-like grip. “You were not asked for. You were told to wait!” he growled as he began to drag Tybalt back towards the door. Though Tybalt was strong, the Prince was stronger, and Tybalt felt his feet dragging and catching on the rug as he stumbled, trying to resist. “You will not defy me, Capulet, this is none of your business!”

“Let him go.”

Both Tybalt and the Prince glanced back at Mercutio _\- no, Valentine_ \- as he rose to his feet, eyes shadowed. 

“He is nothing to do with this!” snapped the Prince.

“I said, _let him go._ ” 

Prince Escalus stared at Valentine then his hand dropped away from Tybalt's arm. Tybalt backed away from him slowly, unable to take his eyes off Valentine as the other man slowly approached him.

The transformation was unnerving; he even _walked_ differently from Mercutio with a slow, careless grace, almost as if he were dancing to some inner tune only he could hear. Tybalt took a step backwards without thinking as Valentine drew himself up before him. He lifted a hand towards Tybalt's face, and Tybalt held his breath and tried not to flinch as an ice-cold hand trailed down his face, one finger following the line of the scar upon his jaw then continuing downwards until Valentine's hand rested loosely around Tybalt's throat. Tybalt swallowed as he stared into the alien blue eyes. He was afraid, though he could not have said why.

Valentine smiled, though his eyes were cold as he held Tybalt fast with his gaze. “Don't be afraid,” he murmured. “I'm not going to hurt you.” The smile widened a little and there was a hint of teeth. “Well. Not yet.” He turned his head slightly and spoke over his shoulder. “Tybalt and I are leaving. This meeting is over.”

“It is over when I say it is over, and I am not yet done with either Tybalt or Mercutio,” said the Prince flatly.

Valentine stepped slowly around Tybalt and rested his chin upon Tybalt's shoulder, his hand still held loosely around Tybalt's throat. “Oh, but we are, my uncle. Tybalt and I are leaving now. And don't bother sending your doctors up with their needles and pills. Mercutio doesn't need them. He has me.” His breath was hot upon Tybalt's cheek as he nuzzled the side of his face. “Walk forwards,” he whispered in Tybalt's ear, and Tybalt could only obey.

They passed the Prince, and Tybalt was aware of Escalus' eyes upon him, a look of concern in their dark blue depths. For him? For Mercutio? He didn't know. He could only move forward, Valentine's hand around his throat and the other pressed flat against the small of his back.

They walked slowly yet steadily back through the palace and towards the guest rooms. Tybalt was aware of eyes upon them as they passed, hushed whispers following in their wake, but he glanced neither to left or right.

Juliet and Romeo came to a halt as they walked along the hallway towards their own rooms, Juliet's eyes widening as she took in the sight of her cousin, white-faced, Valentine's hand still around his throat as he walked towards them.

“Tybalt, what -” she began, but Tybalt merely shook his head slightly and kept walking as Romeo pulled her to one side. Valentine walked Tybalt towards Mercutio's room. 

He pulled Tybalt to a halt before the mirror. “Don't move,” he whispered in Tybalt's ear.

Behind him, Tybalt heard the lock click.


	45. Chapter 45

Mercutio opened his eyes blearily and stared blankly at his hand upon the pillow, trying to work out where he was. The room was dark; rolling over he glanced towards the windows and realised it was night. He sat up slowly and wondered which room he was in.

His memory was a blank; he could remember nothing from the door to his uncle's parlour opening to the moment he'd opened his eyes, though he couldn't shake an uneasy feeling that something was wrong. He slowly got up and felt his way towards the light switch by the door, stumbling slightly over something on the floor. He flicked the light on then turned, blinking.

“Oh fuck.”

The room was a mess. Broken glass was scattered across the carpet, dark stains on the carpet ( _let it be wine, not blood, please dear god let it not be blood_ ). The desk was overturned, papers scattered everywhere, and a chair lay on its side in front of the shattered mirror that was spattered with something dark; as he stared at it he clenched his fists without thinking then winced as he felt pain lance up through the palm of his hand. He raised his hand and stared at the lacerations that criss-crossed his palm and fingers, then froze as his eyes caught sight of the body sprawled upon the floor, half-hidden by the drifts of scattered papers.

“No. Oh no.”

He threw himself down upon his knees beside the still body and frantically brushed aside papers before carefully rolling Tybalt over onto his back. There was a smear of blood across the pale lips and down his chin, but as Mercutio frantically checked Tybalt's unconscious body he could find no sign of any other injury apart from finger-shaped bruises around his upper arm. His black shirt had been ripped half off ( _were those knife slashes? No, they couldn't be, mustn't be, dear god what had he done_ ), one shoulder bared, with more finger-shaped bruises there.

He had a brief flash of memory _his hand upon that bare shoulder, forcing Tybalt to his knees as he glanced up at their reflection in the mirror, forcing Tybalt to watch, in his other hand -_

“No!” cried Mercutio as he recoiled.

He was distantly aware of a hammering on a door, muted, voices muffled as they called his name. He stared down at Tybalt, feeling panic rise. _What had he done??_

He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, wrapping it hastily around his hand and tying off the make-shift bandage with his teeth and other hand, then he slid his hands beneath Tybalt's shoulders and knees before staggering to his feet and carrying him to the bed, laying him down.

No, he couldn't let Romeo and Juliet in here with the room in this state. God only knows what they must have heard already. He stared wildly around, then shoved broken glass out of his way as he crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out a spare shirt. Returning to the bed he tore away the remnants of Tybalt's shirt before dressing him in the clean one, then he made his way to the door of the bedroom. He was unsurprised to find it locked.

“Valentine, what the hell did you do?” he muttered to himself as he unlocked it, then returned to the bed and gathered up Tybalt in his arms once more.

The tall, lanky Capulet was far too light for Mercutio's liking; he'd lost weight whilst his jaw healed. Mercutio gently laid him out on the sofa, laying his limp hands upon his breast before locking the bedroom door then finally crossing to the door to the hall and unlocking it.

Juliet and Romeo glanced up at him, startled, then Juliet pushed her way hastily past him and flew to Tybalt's side. Romeo leaned his forearm against the door frame and stared at Mercutio.

“What did he do?” he asked quietly. Mercutio didn't need to ask who “he” was. They both knew.

“I don't know,” whispered Mercutio. “God help me, I don't know.”

“What have you done to him?” asked Juliet frantically as she turned to stare at Mercutio. “I can't wake him. _What did you do to him??_ ”

Mercutio turned and fell back against the wall then slid down until he was sitting on the carpet. “I don't know,” he repeated, his breath hitching in his chest as he felt his eyes stinging.

It had never been this bad. He was afraid; so goddamned afraid. Afraid of what Valentine ( _he_ ) had done, afraid of what this meant, afraid he was finally losing what was left of his mind as he stared at Juliet trying to wake her cousin.

Romeo crouched down next to Mercutio and squeezed his shoulder comfortingly.

“I don't know what to do,” breathed Mercutio as he stared at Tybalt. “I don't even know what he – what _I_ did to him. How can I fix this if I don't even remember what happened?”

“What brought him out?” asked Romeo; Mercutio shook his head slowly.

“I don't know. I remember being called into my uncle's room, then – something happened, something bad, but I can't remember. Then waking up in my room and Tybalt was like this.”

“Could he just have had a seizure?” asked Romeo gently.

“I don't know,” said Mercutio distractedly as he ran a hand through his hair. “Yes? Maybe? I've no idea.”

Tybalt stirred, turning his head slightly as his eyelids shivered, consciousness slowly returning. Mercutio had the overwhelming urge to run to him but he didn't dare move.

“Tybalt? Tybalt, can you hear me?” asked Juliet anxiously as she stroked his face. His eyes opened slowly and he focused with difficulty on her face.

“Where... where am I?” he murmured dazedly. His gaze roamed around the room until his eyes fell on Mercutio. He struggled up onto his elbow, ignoring Juliet as she tried to push him back down onto the sofa. He blinked, focusing on Mercutio.

Mercutio groaned and bowed his head, drawing his knees up to his chest as he wrapped his arms around his legs and pressed his forehead against his knees. He could feel a sob welling up in his chest and he bit his lip, trying to stifle it.

This was all wrong, so very wrong.

He could feel Romeo's hand gently rubbing reassuring circles over his back as Tybalt quietly breathed his name, but he didn't look up. His throat felt tight and hot, his chest aching; he couldn't seem to catch his breath properly as his heart hammered in his chest.

He heard Juliet protest and the sofa squeak faintly as Tybalt sat up, and then the faint scuff of bare feet on carpet as he stumbled towards Mercutio. Mercutio curled up tighter, his breath coming in silent shudders now. He wished he could fall through the floor or faint or something, anything but stay here and face Tybalt. If he could have willed himself to death right at that moment he felt would have, rather than look into Tybalt's eyes. _What had he done?_ He didn't know, and that made everything all the more horrible.

“Mercutio.” Tybalt was kneeling in front of him, his hand resting on Mercutio's shoulder. “Mercutio, what's wrong?”

He couldn't lift his head. He felt Tybalt stroke his other hand through his hair and he wanted to relax into that touch, take Tybalt into his arms and apologise abjectly for what he had done – but he had no idea what that was, and from the sounds of things nor did anyone else in the room. Yet he hadn't imagined it. The wreckage of his room behind that locked door told him that much.

“Mercutio, please, look at me,” Tybalt whispered huskily. “You're worrying me. What happened? Did I have another seizure? Was it a bad one?”

Mercutio tried to speak but all that came out was a gulping sob as he slowly lifted his head, staring at Tybalt's scarred throat, unable to face his eyes as waves of remorse and guilt washed over him. 

“What's wrong? Why is he like this?” Tybalt was kneeling in front of him, both hands on his shoulders as he glanced up at Romeo who shrugged helplessly. Juliet leaned over Tybalt and tried to pull him back to his feet but he shrugged her off. Mercutio could only stare at Tybalt's throat, unable to look at his face as his chest heaved and he felt tears run down his cheeks.

“Something happened in here earlier but we don't know what,” said Romeo. “Something to do with Valentine.”

Mercutio felt Tybalt flinch, and he jerked his eyes up to Tybalt's face. He wore a look of blank incomprehension, as though confused by his body's automatic response to the name.

“Oh god I'm sorry,” said Mercutio in a hurry as he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Tybalt and held him close. “I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry.” He couldn't stop saying it, even as he felt his tears soak into Tybalt's shirt and Tybalt's arms slip gently around him.

“Mercutio, what happened?” asked Tybalt, bewildered.

And Mercutio couldn't tell him.

_What the hell did I do?_

 

***

 

He didn't know how long he knelt there, clutching at Tybalt as he wept but slowly his breathing evened out, and Tybalt and Romeo were able to persuade him to move to the sofa where he curled into a ball of misery, his head in Tybalt's lap and his arms around his lover's waist as Tybalt gently stroked his hair.

“I've never seen him like this before,” whispered Tybalt. “Romeo?”

Romeo shook his head. “Not this bad. You don't remember anything?”

He felt Tybalt shrug. “Nothing,” he replied quietly. “But then I rarely do after a seizure.”

“How is your head?” asked Juliet quietly.

“Splitting,” admitted Tybalt. “Nothing I can't deal with.”

She tutted at him as she rose to her feet. “I'll fetch your painkillers,” she said. “No, don't give me that look, Tybalt Capulet! They'll do you no good sitting in your desk drawer.”

“You're as bad as Nurse,” grumbled Tybalt, but Mercutio could hear the fondness in his voice as he complained quietly.

Mercutio felt exhausted and wrung out. He had never needed Valentine so much as right now; his brother could always calm him down after such episodes; and yet never had he felt so terrified of Valentine. He felt torn; on the one hand he wanted to push Tybalt away for his own safety, tell him to keep away; and yet he couldn't bear to be parted from him. He clung to him as though his life depended on it.

His arms must have unconsciously tightened around Tybalt's waist; Tybalt's hand paused. “Mercutio?” he murmured softly. “I wish you could tell me what's wrong.” He sighed softly, and Mercutio was racked further with guilt.

“I don't know,” he managed to whisper hoarsely.

Juliet returned with Tybalt's pain meds and a glass of water; he took them, then offered the glass of water to Mercutio.

Mercutio stared at it, then sat up slowly and took the glass.

“You look as though you need to sleep,” said Juliet quietly.

“Hang on,” said Romeo as he got up and crossed to the bedroom door, turning the key in the lock. Mercutio belatedly realised where he was going and leapt up, reaching a hand towards Romeo as he dropped the glass.

“Romeo, no!” he cried, but it was too late.

“Bloody hell,” said Romeo in a tone of hushed, horrified awe as he stared at the wreckage of Mercutio's room. Juliet came to join him at the door and exclaimed in a hushed tone.

“Don't go in,” Mercutio whispered. “Please.”

Tybalt stared up at him. “What are they going to find?” he asked quietly.

Juliet re-emerged from the room, Tybalt's torn and shredded shirt in her hands. She stared at Mercutio disbelievingly, and Mercutio closed his eyes.

“That,” he murmured.


	46. Chapter 46

Tybalt stared at the shirt. He slowly rose to his feet and moved towards Juliet and took it from her, fingering the rents and tears. He fingered the raw edge of the fabric.

“A knife did this,” he whispered. Romeo emerged from the bedroom and wordlessly handed a black-handled knife to Tybalt. It had a long, curved, wickedly sharp blade, and Tybalt stared at it, wondering how on earth Mercutio could have come by it.

“What is it?” asked Juliet. “I've never seen a knife quite like that before.”

“It's a skinning knife,” whispered Tybalt faintly. He took the blade from Romeo and stared at it for a moment before tugging up the sleeve of the shirt he was wearing then laying the intact sleeve of the torn shirt over his bare forearm. He easily slipped the tip of the razor-sharp blade through the thin cotton fabric then slid it through, the fabric peeling open to show his bare arm untouched beneath.

He stared at the cut in fascination, noting how the cut edge was identical to the other slashes on the shirt. “I was wearing this shirt earlier,” he said slowly. He studied the edge of the blade carefully then blinked as Mercutio suddenly bolted for the bathroom looking green and nauseous. The sound of noisy vomiting drifted back through the open door.

Romeo laid his hand over Tybalt's then gently but firmly plucked the knife from his hand. Tybalt glanced at him quizzically.

“Tybalt... you were wearing your silk scarf when you walked in this room,” said Juliet quietly.

He stared at her. “How did you know that?” he asked.

“Val-” Romeo checked himself as Tybalt twitched, involuntarily. “You and Mercutio passed us in the hallway earlier. He had his-”

Juliet elbowed Romeo sharply in the ribs. “He took you straight into this room and locked the door, but you still had your scarf on then,” she stated before shooting Romeo a pointed look.

He blinked, then pushed past her into the bedroom, ignoring her calls to stop as he walked slowly through the wreckage. He stared at the shattered mirror and drew closer, feeling curiously numb inside as he reached out to touch the rust-coloured stains. His gaze dropped to the floor wherever

_he was forced to his knees, Valentine's fingers gripping his shoulder with bruising force before he grasped Tybalt's chin and forced him to lift his head and stare at their reflections. He watched with morbid fascination as Valentine brought the blade around before him and then lifted it to his throat -_

Tybalt stumbled back, clutching at the nearest bedpost to stop himself falling. He felt dizzy and sick as he turned away and staggered towards the doorway. He was aware of Romeo and Juliet's eyes on him as he pushed past them; he paid them no mind as he headed for the door out of the suite.

“Tybalt!” cried Mercutio from behind him; he paused in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, but didn't look back. He pushed himself onwards and away from the room which stank of blood, spilled wine and fear.

He had no idea where he was going at first as he stumbled through the halls of the palace, the ruined shirt still clutched in his left hand. He couldn't shake images from his mind; brief flashes, like a captured image in a sequence he couldn't fully recall. He thought he could feel icy fingers at his throat and he whirled around, staring wildly around him as he pressed his back against the nearest wall. But he was alone.

He pressed his free hand against his forehead; his head was beginning to ache in real earnest now, and the lights in the hall seemed too bright. He blinked

and suddenly had a clear memory of _his own hands thrusting open the doors to the Prince's chambers, Mercutio kneeling at the feet of the Prince_ -

as he drew a shuddering breath. He stared blankly ahead, mentally fitting fragmentary pieces together. He knew he had gone to the prince's chambers at his summons on their return to the palace. He remembered being left to wait in the antechamber. He grasped at the elusive memories, trying to coax more from his hazy recollections, more than half-dream.

He had pushed his way into the Prince's room and confronted the Prince and Mercutio, and then – what? Something had happened. Juliet and Romeo had seen Mercutio take him back to his rooms where ( _a knife sliced through cloth, cold hands upon his shoulder, his chin, his throat, the blade in the darkness, bright blue eyes and the touch of steel and the smell of fear and something in that room, something cold and monstrous and full of hate and_ ) something happened that led to his ( _mind shutting down don't think don't question stop thinking_ ) seizure and then nothing until he opened his eyes to find Juliet hovering over him.

He knew where it had ended. And now he also knew that it began in that room with the Prince and Mercutio.

Now he knew where he had to go.

He stalked through the halls with a sense of purpose now, his long legs driving him on, the torn shirt still clenched in his fist. 

He had no memory of that walk. His mind was too caught up in the here-and-now of what felt like a living nightmare as the images kept playing through his mind. Ghost fingers caught at his wrists, his fingers, tangled in his hair; ghost breath upon his cheek, his throat. The kiss of steel half-remembered on heated flesh and the taste of blood, its scent maddening and sickening. He was barely aware of the feel of the blood-red carpet beneath his feet or the wooden panelling as he trailed his outstretched fingers along the wall.

Faces loomed in front of him; they fell like thought as he reacted from blind instinct. If they struck him, he didn't feel it; he felt nothing until his hands were pushing once more against the heavy wooden doors as his feet slipped in something wet and hot, the air filled with a coppery tang that he could taste upon his lips, his hands slick and red and then he was striding into the Prince's chamber and a deathly silence flowed behind him.

He strode towards the bedroom doors and flung them back, not stopping until he stood at the foot of the bed, breathing heavily as he stared at Prince Escalus who was sitting up, rubbing his eyes and staring at Tybalt as though he were a demon risen from some bloodsoaked pit of hell.

And perhaps he was.

“Tybalt. What have you done?” Escalus asked quietly.

In answer, he threw the torn shirt at the Prince, then paused, staring at his blood-slick hands. Distractedly he wiped his hands slowly down the front of his shirt which was wet with splashes of dark red.

“Whatever I have done, it was of your making, Prince of Verona,” he whispered.

“And what is it you have done, Tybalt?” asked the Prince quietly.

“Ask instead what your nephew did. Ask what _Valentine_ did.” Tybalt's voice was flat and cold. _As cold as the fingers he could still feel._ “I am what he has made of me. He and all the rest. You knew what he was capable of.” He was trembling. He could feel it; his body shivering, even his voice shaking slightly.

Escalus slipped from the bed, drawing on a robe and belting it as he made his way around the bed towards Tybalt. He took him by the shoulders and drew Tybalt towards the light from the door. Tybalt stared at him as the Prince lifted his hands, one after the other, then began to unbutton his shirt slowly. Tybalt watched him, uncomprehending, but allowed him to slip the shirt off his shoulders.

The Prince ran one hand slowly across the muscles of his abdomen then up across his chest before stepping around him, running his hand slowly across Tybalt's back before exhaling slowly.

“I was afraid...” The Prince's voice trailed off.

“Of what?” asked Tybalt. He was growing chilled, and the fire of adrenaline had been replaced in his veins with cold dread and exhaustion.

“Of what he might have done to you.”

“He did enough,” whispered Tybalt.

“Tybalt -”

“What is he?” he asked, lifting his eyes to stare at the Prince. “Is he a ghost? A demon?”

The Prince shook his head. “No. Only the product of a sick and troubled mind, Tybalt. Only that.”

“I would rather it were some demon,” breathed Tybalt.

“His demons are of his own conjuration, born of an unquiet mind and grief,” replied the Prince heavily. “He never recovered after Valentine died.”

“He became Valentine?” asked Tybalt slowly, shivering. He wrapped his arms around his body; he was cold, so very cold now.

“No. Only an echo of what he remembered of Valentine,” replied Escalus sadly. “He could not handle the loss of his brother. Not long after Valentine died, he began to hallucinate that Valentine was speaking to him through mirrors. And then the stress and grief... it caused a schism in his mind. He became two minds living in one body; two separate personalities born from one. Mercutio, and Valentine. But over time, Valentine became a distortion of a memory. Now, he is the darkness inside Mercutio.”

“Valentine hates me,” whispered Tybalt, gritting his teeth. Escalus moved behind him; he did not turn to follow but stared at the ground.

“No,” replied Escalus from behind him. “Valentine fears you. You are becoming to Mercutio what Valentine once was. With you in his life, Mercutio has no further need of him.”

Tybalt jumped as Escalus draped a warm blanket around his shoulders; he clutched at it as Escalus circled him to stand before him once more.

“Tybalt, my nephew loves you, for good or for ill. But he is not well. He refuses to listen – to me, or to his doctors. Perhaps what has happened tonight will open his eyes and make him finally see the truth – and perhaps he will listen to you where all others have failed.”

“You ask much of me,” groaned Tybalt as he closed his eyes.

“He loves you. Use that.”

“Damn you to hell,” hissed Tybalt.

The prince laughed. “I'm already there, Tybalt, as are you. This is Verona.”


	47. Chapter 47

The next few days passed as if in a dream for Mercutio. He was aware of surreptitious looks (and some more brazen) and the ripple of whispers that followed in his wake when he ventured out of his room. Increasingly he confined himself more and more to his rooms.

He couldn't sleep in that bed. Though the servants had come and cleaned it, scrubbing out the stains from the carpet ( _not blood, it was wine, it had to be wine_ ), replacing the mirror and restoring it to how it had been before until there was no sign anything untoward had ever taken place there, he couldn't bear to remain in there alone for more than a minute or two.

He couldn't face the mirror at all. _Any_ mirrors. He had the servants remove the one in the bathroom and took to shaving by touch.

He slept on the sofa, alone. He couldn't bring himself to beg Tybalt to let him sleep in his room; in fact, he tried to avoid Tybalt as much as possible. Romeo and Juliet made it clear he would have been welcome to join them, but after the first night when he woke them both by thrashing and screaming in a nightmare at 3am that he couldn't remember afterwards, he always demurred.

Not that he slept much. He took to prowling the halls at night when the palace was sleeping, alone with his thoughts.

Which was why he knew that Tybalt was suffering nightmares every night as well. He would linger by the door to Tybalt's rooms, and would wonder at what terror he must be experiencing that such sounds could come from that ruined voice. He would press himself against the door, racked with remorse over a crime he could not remember committing, forcing himself to linger there and listen to every ragged, desperate sound torn from those lips; lips he had kissed, that he yearned to touch even now. His penance. He wanted to force his way through that door, stroke back the raven hair from that beloved face, soothe Tybalt back to restful sleep as he had done so often but he could not even lay his hand upon the door handle.

He didn't have the right. He was the cause of those screams.

The screams would taper off eventually, and then he would hear the bedroom door open, Tybalt's ragged breathing as he stumbled into the room just beyond the door where Mercutio was pressed; and that would be when finally the paralysis that held him there would release him, and he would slip away as silently as he could before Tybalt could somehow sense him there.

Often he would find himself walking the circular gallery beneath the cupola where he and Romeo had crouched and listened to the sounds of gunfire below as Romeo had bled. He would try the handle of the door leading to the roof, even though he knew it would be locked. It was always locked.

He would lean over the rail and stare at the smooth white marble floor four storeys below. If he closed his eyes he could see in his mind's eye Tybalt lying huddled upon the floor inside the circle of Montague soldiers. He would open them and stare down at the floor so far below, sometimes until the first colours of light began to filter through the stained glass of the cupola with the dawn, and he would return to his rooms and throw himself down upon the sofa and pray no dreams would come.

Once, he lifted his leg over the railing and sat there for who knows how long, staring down at the marble floor and thinking how easy it would be. He did not sleep that day.

He was aware of his uncle coming to see him finally a week later. He had stood and stared at Mercutio as he sprawled on his back on the sofa, staring blankly at the ceiling. Neither of them said a word. Finally Escalus had turned and let as silently as he had come.

Half an hour later, Andreas had arrived with two doctors from the clinic. He had gone with them out of apathy, and because it seemed the easiest way. He wouldn't have to think.

When they returned him to his room, his mind was empty. He had slept for two days after that, Romeo and Juliet later told him. On the third morning, Andreas had arrived with a valet who had dressed Mercutio, shaved him carefully, and cut his hair before leading him to the dining hall where he ate sparingly of breakfast with his uncle, his appetite gone.

“You will resume your duties,” Prince Escalus told him. “I have resumed mine, but it is time you took your place in the public eye as my heir and conduct yourself accordingly.”

“Yes, uncle,” replied Mercutio tonelessly.

“You're familiar with the administration now; you will resume, with Tybalt as your assistant. He has been proving himself most capable this past week.”

Mercutio blinked, feeling the first stirrings of emotion. “Is...is that....” he swallowed hard, suddenly finding speech difficult – he who had always been so eloquent and never at a loss for words, whose tongue had run away with him and into more trouble than he had ever cared to recall. “Is that wise?” he finally managed.

“Wise? Perhaps not. But it is necessary,” Escalus replied heavily. “You will begin after breakfast.”

Mercutio had fled the room without waiting for permission and thrown up violently in the first bathroom he came to, losing what little food he'd managed to choke down.

He approached his uncle's office with dread. He hesitated before knocking, and waited.

“Enter.”

He pushed open the door and walked in slowly.

Escalus sat behind his desk, Andreas to one side. Mercutio had eyes only for the figure in the chair sat directly opposite Escalus however, sitting with his back to the door.

Tybalt was clad in black as ever. His sleek black hair had been scraped back into a ponytail, and he sat motionless, as though he were made of stone. Mercutio stared at him, then jumped when Tybalt finally spoke in a flat, rasping whisper.

“Hello Mercutio.”

“I'm sorry.” It blurted out of him without thought. Tybalt was still for a moment, then he slowly turned in his seat to stare at Mercutio.

“Are you.”

His face was a ghastly pale shade, the hollows beneath his eyes dark purple, like bruises. He was thin, far thinner than Mercutio had ever seen him, and his face was cadaverous, like a death mask. The worst thing was his eyes however, as they gazed up at him from beneath his dark brows; they were haunted and dark, the only outward sign of emotion.

Tybalt held his gaze for a moment, and then his thin lips stretched in a mirthless smile. The effect was horrifying. Mercutio could only stare, transfixed, like a deer caught in the headlights of a car; and then Tybalt turned away to face Prince Escalus once more and the spell was broken.

“I have assigned you an office; Andreas will show you the way.” Escalus reached for his tablet, evidently dismissing them both.

Tybalt rose and they followed Andreas down the hall. Though Tybalt walked at Mercutio's side, he gave no sign that he even knew Mercutio was there. Andreas showed them into an office; it was plainly furnished, with two desks – one by a large window overlooking the inner courtyard, the other in the corner. Tybalt made straight for that one, seating himself and reaching for his tablet before beginning to work, not glancing up at Mercutio.

Mercutio sat himself behind the other desk and glanced over at Tybalt as Andreas left them be, but Tybalt was focused on his work. Mercutio sighed silently and reached for the top document in his in-tray.

Though he tried to focus on the work, his mind kept straying, as did his gaze. He kept finding himself glancing over at Tybalt who bent over his work, scribing notes and corrections on the document he was working on. 

Mercutio gave up and set his pen down, leaning back in his chair as he stared at Tybalt. After a moment, Tybalt laid his pen down and lifted his head slowly to stare at him.

“I can't do this,” said Mercutio quietly. “I can't handle this silence.”

Tybalt stared at him steadily, his face blank.

“Talk. Please. Say anything,” Mercutio pleaded.

“What do you want me to say?” whispered Tybalt.

“I don't know, I just – please.” Mercutio rose from his seat. “I know I hurt you. I can't remember what I did, but – but that doesn't excuse it. I am more sorry than you can imagine. I can't bear the thought that I harmed you. I look at your face and -”

“Stop,” whispered Tybalt, lifting a hand as he closed his eyes, a pained expression crossing his face. Mercutio took a step towards him and realised that tears were rolling down Tybalt's face.

He couldn't bear it. He crossed the office in three strides and threw himself down on his knees at Tybalt's feet, wrapping his arms around the slender black-clad legs as he pressed his face against Tybalt's thigh. “I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry,” he whispered. 

He felt Tybalt's hand come to rest upon his head, the fingers running slowly through his hair.

“I know,” breathed Tybalt. “I... cannot bear this either.”

Mercutio dared to lift his head and stare up into Tybalt's face as Tybalt gazed down at him and drew a shuddering breath.

“I have heard you every night outside my door,” Tybalt continued slowly. “Why did you walk away? I needed you, Mercutio.”

Mercutio stared at him aghast. “I thought... I thought I was the last person you wanted to see. I didn't want to hurt you any further.”

Tybalt gasped, and then began to laugh, a hysterical tone colouring his voice until he wrapped his arms around his body and doubled over, the laughter giving way to great, silent sobs that racked his whole body as he pressed his forehead against his knees, each breath a shuddering gasp.

“Oh my god I'm so sorry, Tybalt, I never dreamed -”

“I _needed you!_ ” screamed Tybalt hoarsely as he lifted his head enough to stare into Mercutio's eyes. “Don't talk to me of dreams when Valentine – he – h-he - every night...!”

Mercutio pushed himself up and reached for Tybalt, gathering him into his arms as Tybalt collapsed against him, shuddering as he gasped for breath. He sprawled against Mercutio, his head in Mercutio's lap as he drew his knees up and clutched his hands to his chest, his body trembling as Mercutio could only hold him and stroke his hair and murmur how sorry he was. 

Tybalt's body suddenly stiffened as his legs jerked out. His spine arched as he threw his head back.

“Oh god no,” breathed Mercutio as he shifted himself and Tybalt around so that Tybalt lay on his back as his eyes rolled back into his head and the first convulsion seized his body.

He should have seen this coming. He should have known.

He could only watch helplessly as Tybalt's body jerked and shuddered spasmodically until finally he went limp. The time seemed to stretch until forever, but it could only have been perhaps a couple of minutes at most until the seizure was over. Gently, Mercutio laid him down and rolled him onto his side, straightening one leg as he drew the other knee up before carefully letting him drop into the recovery position, tilting his head slightly back so that his mouth fell open and his airway was clear. Then he knelt beside him, gently stroking Tybalt's hair until finally his eyes fluttered open.

“Tybalt,” he called gently. “Can you hear me?”

Tybalt's brow creased into a faint frown. “Mercutio?” he whispered.

“Yes, I'm here. Lie still, I'll get you some water.”

“No,” breathed Tybalt as he felt blindly for Mercutio's hand; Mercutio took it gently. Tybalt gripped it weakly. “Don't leave me,” he managed to rasp.

“I'm right here, I won't leave you,” Mercutio promised.

They remained like that for some time until Tybalt was able to move. Mercutio helped him rise to his knees, then Tybalt gripped tight to him as he dropped his head to rest against Mercutio's shoulder. Mercutio wrapped his arms around him and held him tight. “Do you think you can stand?” he asked quietly. Tybalt shook his head, then bit his lip.

“Migraine?” guessed Mercutio.

“Yes,” Tybalt managed to gasp.

“Hold on,” said Mercutio as he lifted Tybalt up into his arms. He managed to get to his feet; as the light from the window struck Tybalt's face, he flinched and buried his face against Mercutio's shirt with a low whimper.

Mercutio carried him carefully from the office, ignoring Andreas as he came hurrying towards him. Andreas followed, then overtook him to open the double doors leading to the main hall. He stared at Tybalt then raised an eyebrow at Mercutio.

“Seizure,” said Mercutio tersely as he carried Tybalt through the doors.

“I'll inform his Highness,” nodded Andreas. “Do you require medical assistance?”

“No,” Tybalt managed to groan between teeth gritted against the pain.

Mercutio carried him as swiftly as he could back to Tybalt's rooms, cringing at each low wordless sound of pain as he bore him up the stairs. It seemed to take forever to reach the guest wing; he was heartily relieved to see the valet, Peter, just outside Tybalt's rooms.

“Get the door,” he ordered him urgently. Peter complied, following them in then running on ahead to open the bedroom door, darting inside to draw the heavy velvet drapes and plunging the room into soothing darkness as Mercutio carried Tybalt carefully in. He laid him on the bed as gently as he could, where Tybalt curled slowly into a ball of misery, clutching at his head.

Peter hurried over as Mercutio sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing soothing circles across Tybalt's back. Peter held up a glass of water, and Mercutio nudged Tybalt until he uncurled enough to sit up with Mercutio's help. As it was, Mercutio had to hold the glass for him as Tybalt managed to swallow down the painkillers, and then Peter rolled up Tybalt's sleeve and administered a shot of something.

“Relaxant and anti-emetic,” explained Peter quietly at Mercutio's questioning glance. “Best leave him to sleep it off, sir.”

“No,” Tybalt managed as Mercutio laid him back down. “Stay.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Mercutio reassured him as Peter withdrew. He stretched out on the bed behind Tybalt and held him as he slipped into sleep.


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for torture and implied mental torture

_He stares at the blood dripping from Valentine's hands, the knife, pooling at Valentine's feet; anywhere but at the thing on the floor at Valentine's feet, at what Valentine has done. His throat is raw from screaming, his mind numb and yet still he pulls futilely at the tape binding him to the chair._

_He opens his mouth wide to scream again but nothing comes out as Valentine blindfolds him. Cold hands on his throat. “You're next.”_

_He tells himself he won't scream. Won't beg. He'll deny Valentine his fear. But his body betrays him, jerking and twitching as he feels the kiss of steel against his skin._

_Only fabric splits open though; not flesh. Not yet. Not yet. He is toying with him. He quivers in anticipation for the moment the blade will start to flay the skin from flesh._

_Cut. Cut. Cut. Each pass of the knife like ice against his skin, yet parting only fabric, spilling no blood._

_He won't give in. He bites his lip hard. He will not cry out. Will not whimper._

_The blindfold is torn away and impossibly blue eyes are staring down at him. He's laughing. The bastard is laughing at him._

_“You look like you need a drink.”_

_Valentine sets the open mouth of a bottle of wine to his lips; he drinks, briefly thankful. A low chuckle is his only warning before suddenly Valentine shoves the bottle forward, driving the neck of the bottle down into his throat as he pinches his nose closed._

_He tries to scream but wine is flooding his throat; he cannot breathe. His body thrashes as he tries to escape but Valentine's grip is too strong. The glass neck of the bottle is pushed so far down his throat he gags and then he feels his stomach heave. He vomits, the bile blending with the wine, spilling out the corners of his mouth around the bottle as he kicks out frantically. His chest is burning with the need to breathe; he grows dizzy as he fights the urge to inhale._

_The bottle is wrenched away and he turns his head to the side, a stream of red wine and vomit splattering across the carpet as he gasps for breath, his body shuddering._

_“What a waste of a perfectly good vintage. Let's try again, shall we?”_

_He tries to gasp no, but a second bottle is being forced down his throat._

_He has given up struggling by the third bottle, only able to stare dazedly up at those blue eyes as his chest burns, and he thinks how much simpler it would be to give in and inhale. And yet he endures it, sinking inside himself as he has always done, retreating from the pain, the fear, the discomfort._

_“What, given up on me already? How disappointing.”_

_He doesn't stir as the knife slides along his arm then slices the tape open; he lacks the strength. He is exhausted, physically, emotionally, mentally. Valentine has to force him up out of the chair and back to his knees in front of the shattered mirror. He stares dully as Valentine crosses to the overturned desk and retrieves something small and black. As he brings it towards him, a shock of electricity dances between the prongs on the end of the device. Valentine circles around behind him._

_As he feels the two prongs of the taser jab against his skull through his dark hair, he feels only gratitude that soon this will be over._

_Electricity courses through his skull and he screams -_

 

“Tybalt! Tybalt, it's OK, you're safe, you're OK....”

He opened his eyes, panting, feeling momentary panic as he felt arms around him and stared up into bright blue eyes. He struggled briefly, his heart racing and his breath coming in stuttering gasps until Mercutio stroked his hair and called gently to him; as the last fog of the dream released his mind, he drew a shuddering breath and was at last able to focus on Mercutio.

“I'm... alright,” he managed to whisper. His throat felt raw and painful.

Mercutio's snort of disbelief showed what he thought of that. “No, you're not. No-one can scream like that and be OK,” he said quietly. He gently stroked the damp hair back from Tybalt's forehead then bent down to kiss the pale skin lightly. “I wish I could take these dreams away from you,” he said wistfully.

It had been a month, but Tybalt was still plagued nightly with terrible dreams that had him screaming hoarsely as he thrashed in their throes, unable to awaken of his own accord until they had run their course, it seemed.

Mercutio never pushed for an explanation, and Tybalt couldn't explain. The guilty look on Mercutio's face was bad enough; he knew full well that he was the reason why Tybalt never slept easy, but if he had known -

No. Bad enough that Tybalt suffered through the nightly replay of what he had experienced at Valentine's hands; there was nothing to be gained by inflicting that nightmare upon Mercutio also.

And he was wary of reawakening Valentine again.

Tybalt reached for Mercutio and curled into his arms, to Mercutio's surprise. It was rare that the dark-haired man initiated such intimacy; Mercutio was quite free with his physical affection but Tybalt had always been reserved and withdrawn. He was still shaken by the dream however; he had remembered more this time than he had since that night, and he was still more than a little in shock. His mind kept replaying the image of Valentine with the knife, holding up -

_No! Don't go there! Don't think don't feel don't remember too soon too soon-_

“Tybalt!” Mercutio's voice broke through the sudden rising panic. “Tybalt, breathe!”

He drew a shuddering breath and clutched at Mercutio. “I'm sorry,” he gasped. “I need a drink.” He pulled away and rolled out of bed, stumbling towards the door.

“Is that wise?” asked Mercutio, slipping out of the bed and following. He pulled on a dressing gown then grabbed Tybalt's black robe as he followed him into the sitting room.

Tybalt grabbed the nearest bottle and splashed wine into the first glass he found and knocked it back without thinking. As the rich merlot hit the back of his throat and the familiar taste filled his mouth, he gagged, choking, before the wine came back up in a rush as he doubled over.

“Tybalt! My God, what's wrong? Are you sick?” exclaimed Mercutio as he wrapped the warm robe around Tybalt and supported him with an arm around the waist. Tybalt wiped his mouth with the back of a trembling hand.

“Must have been something I ate,” he mumbled as he straightened slowly.

“You're a terrible liar,” said Mercutio as he rubbed Tybalt's back comfortingly.

“And you talk too much,” whispered Tybalt, though without heat. He reached for the bottle of brandy and a glass.

“I really don't think that's a good idea,” said Mercutio as he laid his hand over the mouth of the glass.

“What are you, my conscience?” muttered Tybalt irritably as he wrenched the glass away from Mercutio and turned away, cradling the bottle as he made his way over to the nearest chair and dropped down into it heavily.

“Tybalt, what good do you think drinking is going to do?” asked Mercutio as he crouched down in front of Tybalt. Tybalt ignored him and splashed a good two or three fingers of brandy into the glass. “Come on, Tybalt, this isn't going to help,” Mercutio pleaded.

Tybalt knocked back the brandy then glared at him. “Then what do you suggest I do to make sure I can sleep and not fucking dream?” he snarled.

“Maybe the doctors can give you something?” suggested Mercutio. “I just know this isn't going to work. Please, give me the bottle.”

“Oh, so they can drug me to sleep?” snorted Tybalt. “I'll take the brandy, thanks.”

Mercutio sighed. “Please don't do this,” he said softly. He held out his hand for the bottle.

Tybalt stared at him, clutching the brandy bottle. He knew it wouldn't take much to knock him out, and he so desperately wanted the oblivion he knew he could find in the bottle. And yet, he could see the hurt and worry in Mercutio's eyes.

He sighed. “Just for tonight,” he whispered. “Just let me have this tonight. I am so exhausted, Mercutio.”

“It was just for the night last night, Tybalt. And the night before that. How many more nights will it be, Tybalt?”

“As long as it takes,” replied Tybalt.

“And how long will that be?” asked Mercutio. “Until you drink yourself to an early grave?”

Tybalt stared at him silently, and then finally held out the bottle. Mercutio took it and stood up slowly, then bent over to kiss Tybalt's cheek. “Thank you, love,” he whispered before turning away to return the bottle to the drinks cabinet. 

“I wish you would tell me what it is you see in your dreams,” Mercutio sighed as he leaned against the drinks cabinet. “Maybe if you told me, it wouldn't seem so bad?”

“No,” said Tybalt flatly. He had no intentions of telling him. Quite apart from his fear of knowledge of the truth bringing Valentine out again, he had his own selfish reasons for not inflicting his nightmares upon Mercutio as well; he needed Mercutio functional too much when he awoke screaming.

“Tybalt -”

“I am so tired,” breathed Tybalt as he closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. A month of nightmares, snatching perhaps four or less hours sleep a night, was steadily taking its toll on him. He'd tried not to let it affect his work, but it was hard. 

With the Capulets and Paris gone to ground, Prince Escalus had handed the Capulet estate over to Tybalt and Juliet – and, by extension, Romeo. Lady Montague had taken this as a chance to try and claim certain Capulet holdings for House Montague, under the cover of offering to “administer” them on behalf of her son; Tybalt had been hard-pressed to counter her machinations, even with Mercutio's influence and the Prince's tacit support. His days were split between his duties as a member of the Prince's staff in the position of Mercutio's assistant, and uncovering all the illicit dealings and holdings his uncle had let behind whilst countering the efforts of various other houses to try and stake claims in what should by rights be Juliet's birthright and that of any children she and Romeo might have.

And that was a prospect he had tried not to think too hard on. He had never considered children himself, but it was only natural that eventually his cousin and Romeo would want a family of their own. He had no doubt Juliet would make a far better mother than Lady Capulet ever had; he could only pray he would be a better uncle than Lord Capulet. He had no idea how to behave around small children however; he had few memories of his own childhood, and Juliet – well. Juliet was Juliet.

She'd seemed content at first just to enjoy married life with Romeo, joking that her cat, Marlowe, was her “furry child”; but Marlowe had not been seen for four weeks now. None of the servants had seen him since the Capulet raid, and Andreas had suggested perhaps the cat had fled and gotten lost, or worse.

Tybalt closed his eyes for a moment, then deliberately wrested his mind away from such thoughts and where they might lead.

He shook his head to clear it, focusing instead on more present matters. For some reason the exhumation order on the body in the Capulet crypt had been continually stalled, with first one reason then another being given – first the right paperwork hadn't been submitted, then it went missing, then a necessary official who had to issue a permit wasn't available. It had all the hallmarks of someone deliberately trying to block the exhumation, which only aroused Tybalt's suspicions even more.

Frowning, he reached for his tablet, unlocking the screen with his thumbprint then scrolling through files.

“Tybalt, it's half three in the morning,” said Mercutio as he came over to lean on the back of Tybalt's chair, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. “Whatever it is, it can probably wait until morning.”

“If I can't drink myself to sleep I may as well make use of my time,” replied Tybalt distractedly as he found the data he wanted.

“Come over to the sofa so I can at least sit with you,” said Mercutio.

“You should go back to bed,” replied Tybalt, though he allowed Mercutio to pull him over to the sofa. He grabbed his laptop and settled himself at the end of the sofa as Mercutio settled in at his side.

“What are you working on?” asked Mercutio.

“The exhumation order,” replied Tybalt. “There's something odd going on.”

“Oh?” asked Mercutio, yawning again. “Sorry,” he added belatedly.

“Something about where one of these permits was issued from,” replied Tybalt absently. He called up the palace administration intranet.

After a while he felt Mercutio's head settle onto his shoulder and grow heavy; shortly afterwards, Mercutio began to snore softly. Tybalt shifted the laptop onto the arm of the sofa then gently tugged Mercutio down to rest with his head in Tybalt's lap. He tugged the throw from the back of the sofa over Mercutio and ran a hand absently through the soft ginger hair as he returned to his digital investigations.

He was finally distracted from his research as the sun's dawning rays slowly filled the room, painting it in hues of rose and gold. He was exhausted and drained, his eyes sore from too long spent awake staring at a screen, but he was now certain beyond a doubt that someone was definitely interfering to block the exhumation of the body that had been buried with his name. 

The problem was, it was someone within the Prince's cabinet office.

He closed the laptop and sat back, his gaze distant as he pondered. There was no other way; he would have to go down to the family crypt in person and see for himself who lay there.


	49. Chapter 49

Mercutio glanced around as they stepped out of the car. He'd rarely set foot outside the palace in nearly three months apart from that one glorious afternoon when he and Tybalt had taken off for the mountains, and a handful of business meetings since then. In theory, once his miraculous survival had been announced, he was free to come and go as he pleased; in practice, at first he had been too weak to leave, and then after the raid he was too busy with his duties as de facto ruler of the city – and even though Prince Escalus had taken over once more, it still seemed there was more than enough for his nephew and heir to do – meetings to attend alongside his uncle within the palace, video conferences, and a sizeable amount of administration that his uncle chose to leave on his plate.

Granted, it was Tybalt who dealt with much of that, but still he had to give a certain amount of input – and he couldn't stand in for Mercutio in the face-to-face meetings or video calls, even though the taciturn Capulet was far the better diplomat, surprisingly. In fact, Tybalt could be incredibly charming when he chose to – but his quiet, husky whisper was unsuited to public speaking duties. Somehow Mercutio got the feeling Tybalt wasn't exactly unhappy about that.

He felt guilty for the amount of work Tybalt had to do on his behalf as it was; after all, he also had the Capulet estate to run. In theory he could have left it all up to Romeo and Juliet; in practice, it almost all came down to Tybalt. Juliet simply did not have the in-depth knowledge of her father's businesses needed to effectively manage the empire he'd left behind – and Romeo was completely unfamiliar with the Capulet holdings, and in any case had been an indifferent pupil at best under his own mother's tutelage. Tybalt was doing his best to bring Juliet up to speed as fast as he was able, and she was proving an apt pupil – but still, at present the lion's share of the work was falling to Tybalt. Much of it, he was able to take care of from his office in the palace, but there were many occasions recently when his personal presence had been required.

He had returned from one such meeting two days ago with spots of blood on the cuffs of his white shirt. If he had noticed Mercutio staring at them, he had said nothing of it.

Mercutio had heard of some of the events that had taken place the night after Valentine had attacked ( _No. Tortured. Call it what it was._ ) Tybalt; how Tybalt had waded through a whole unit of Prince Escalus' guards to confront the Prince himself, their blood still covering his hands. By some miraculous chance none of them had died; they had all been replaced however. Even if they had been fit for duty after what he had done to them, they had proven themselves unfit to guard the Prince by allowing themselves to be defeated by one unarmed man.

Even if that man were Tybalt Capulet.

This was the first time since their mountain trip that they had gone anywhere in public together. Tybalt had been very circumspect about their relationship; though affectionate enough in private – in his own way – he was always aloof and irreproachably professional in public, both in his role as Mercutio's bodyguard and as his personal assistant – even within the confines of the palace. And if perhaps some wondered just how _personal_ his duties were, none had reason to point the finger in public.

If Tybalt were aware of the gossip in some of the trashier media outlets, he gave no sign of it.

Even in the car on the way to the Capulet estate, Tybalt had been meticulously correct in behaviour and demeanour, sitting still as his eyes roamed restlessly, identifying and evaluating any possible threats to Mercutio. Mercutio had tried to surreptitiously claim Tybalt's fingers briefly when they climbed into the car; Tybalt had seemingly casually moved his hand to straighten his tie then rested his hand on his knee without apparently noticing or acknowledging Mercutio's attempt. Mercutio had sat back in his own seat and did his best to keep an expression of disappointment off his face, staring out the window restlessly.

Tybalt was the first out of the car, warning Mercutio back with a wave of his hand as he got out. Mercutio waited, tapping his fingers on his knee impatiently whilst Tybalt glanced around cautiously until finally he nodded to Mercutio who practically bounded out of the car at his signal.

“Honestly, Tybalt, do you really think someone's likely to try and attack me here on your own estate?”

“My estate?” Tybalt arched an eyebrow.

“Well, yes, it's as much your home as it is Juliet's,” replied Mercutio. Tybalt's lips stretched in a brief, humourless smile. 

“Home? An odd choice of word. This was never 'home' for me, Mercutio; it was merely the place where I was tolerated.”

“Then where is 'home' to you?” asked Mercutio curiously.

Tybalt shrugged. “Come on,” was all he said as he led the way inside.

Mercutio followed Tybalt into the large reception room just off the entrance hall. Mercutio glanced around; he'd been in this room, the ballroom and Tybalt's old bedroom before but never really had the opportunity to explore the Capulet estate. He glanced up at the paintings on the walls.

“One's missing,” he observed, gesturing to a darker square on the red silkscreened wall with its pattern of fleur-de-lys intertwined with roses. Tybalt glanced up briefly.

“My father's portrait,” he replied then turned back to pick up the bundle of letters that had been left on one end of the long table that ran along one wall beneath the large picture window commanding a view of the drive up to the house from the main gate.

“Where is it?” asked Mercutio, curious.

“My uncle had it removed after my father's death,” replied Tybalt curtly as he opened a letter and frowned at the contents before reaching for the next one.

“I thought -” began Mercutio; Tybalt merely looked up at him wordlessly. Mercutio fell silent. He had the feeling there was an old wound here that was evidently still quite raw. Tybalt had always been touchy on the subject of his father, and evidently even with his aunt and uncle gone he wasn't comfortable revealing anything of his past beyond the strictly necessary. Tybalt held his glance for a moment longer then returned his attention to the letters, sorting them into two different piles.

Mercutio came up behind Tybalt and slipped his arms around his waist as he rested his chin on Tybalt's shoulder. He felt Tybalt stiffen.

“What, I can't hug you even here?” asked Mercutio, offended.

Tybalt set down the letter in his hand. “Mercutio.” His voice, always quiet these days, had a subdued, withdrawn quality to it.

“What's wrong?” asked Mercutio as he let his hands drop away and he stepped back.

Tybalt half-turned towards him, his glance directed at the floor near Mercutio's feet rather than at Mercutio himself.

“It is... difficult for me to be here,” he said slowly.

“I understand,” said Mercutio, though in truth he didn't. This was the house Tybalt had grown up in, and even if his uncle had been a bit of a bastard by all accounts – borne out by what he himself had witnessed – at least his aunt had shown affection to him; even if now some of her actions could be seen in rather a different light with hindsight. And then, too, there was Juliet. This was her childhood and family home, and from what little he had gleaned from Tybalt and from Juliet herself, her childhood appeared to have been a normal, happy one.

Indeed, the only child of Lord and Lady Capulet seemed to have led a rather sheltered life; he couldn't imagine most children of noble birth would still be attended by their nurse at sixteen. He could barely even remember his own nurse; she had been dismissed not long after he turned ten, when he'd been handed over to the first in a rather long line of tutors whose lives he'd done his best to make miserable as swiftly as possible (on the understanding that if they were so set on making his own life so dull, tiresome and miserable then it was only fair that they should have that favour returned; he'd always prided himself on being generous, after all). If Tybalt couldn't be happy on his own account, Mercutio felt he should at least make the effort for his beloved cousin.

Though her pleasure had been muted a little by the discovery that Marlowe had not simply returned to the Capulet estate when he vanished from the palace, Juliet at least had been delighted to return home; the palace was all very well and grand, but living in the guest wing had been rather like staying in a very expensive hotel yet also infinitely more boring. He had a great deal of sympathy for her feelings on the subject; since turning seventeen he'd made it a habit to spend as little time in the palace as possible. He'd spent more nights beneath the Montague roof (and later, various inns and whorehouses) in the past six years than he did at the palace. He had been entirely unsurprised that Tybalt had mistaken his room for a guest room that first night he'd taken him there; it was little more than one. He could have had his pick of any of the much-finer suites in the main palace itself, but after Valentine died he preferred to spend as little time there as possible – and what few nights he did sleep under his uncle's roof he preferred to spend as far away from Prince Escalus as possible.

He spent more time in Tybalt's room even now – and, before Romeo and Juliet had taken up residence here at the Capulet estate full time, in their room as well. He'd been slowly exploring the new aspects of his relationship with Romeo recently whilst Tybalt had been so busy dealing with the more... _socially awkward_ aspects of his uncle's business. It was all still very new and uncertain, but thus far Mercutio was rather enjoying it. He wondered how long he should wait before perhaps raising the question with Tybalt once more.

Tybalt perhaps had picked up on his disquiet and annoyance; he gestured to the doorway. “Why don't you go and explore? I'm sure Juliet must be around somewhere; if you ask then I am certain she would be delighted to give you a tour.” His low rasp held a faint note of derision.

“As you wish, my Prince of Cats,” replied Mercutio as he sketched an elaborate bow towards Tybalt. In doing so, he nearly missed Tybalt's sudden flinch; it was Tybalt's low, shocked gasp that drew his attention. He straightened slowly.

Tybalt stood ramrod straight, staring towards the large window, a letter seemingly forgotten in his hand as he clutched the back of a chair with white knuckles.

“Tybalt?”

“Never use that name again,” said Tybalt. He whirled and glared at Mercutio. “Never, do you hear?” His voice had risen from a whisper to a hoarse shout. Mercutio could only stare at him in surprise as he threw the letter down in anger then abruptly turned and strode from the room, lifting one hand to his forehead as he stumbled briefly upon the edge of the rug then catching himself and departing the room swiftly.

Mercutio blinked. He felt a strange sense of disconnection; as though he had just put his foot on a step that wasn't there, or as though he were staring at a picture that he knew had a piece missing and yet he couldn't quite put his finger on where.

He leafed through the letters on the table but could see nothing there that might have put Tybalt out of sorts. He couldn't understand it. He'd called Tybalt “Prince of Cats” a thousand times and more; though it generally irked him, he had never been moved to such ire as to shout at Mercutio however – and for Tybalt to shout at all these days was unheard of. Indeed, had he not heard Tybalt's nightly screams in the throes of his nightmares Mercutio would have assumed Tybalt had lost the capability to shout.

He shrugged and decided to go look for Juliet. He shoved his hands in his jacket pocket as he set off through the large house, fingering the small penknife in his pocket.

He wondered where Romeo had got to.


	50. Chapter 50

Tybalt lay on his back upon his bed and stared at the brocade roses on the underside of the canopy under his bed and tried not to think. He felt sick to his stomach. 

It was hard to empty his mind. Even as he pulled his thoughts away from the unwanted memories three small words had awoken, yet more memories resurfaced to replace them. Older memories.

He had tried to avoid coming back to the estate himself; it shouldn't have been necessary. Yet here he was. So many memories in this house; it was in this very room that his aunt had come to tell him he must be a man now and put aside childish things as she placed his father's sword into his hands.

That had been the moment he had understood his father was not coming back.

He learned many things that day. The meaning of the word _hate_. The name Montague. That some things could cut far worse than a knife.

He had been brave when they buried his father; everyone had said so. His aunt had wept and wailed as her brother's body was carried away to be laid in the family crypt but Tybalt had stood silently by her side, dry-eyed. They had spoken admiringly of what a credit to his father's honour he had been, a true Capulet.

None of them knew he felt only hatred and anger.

He had spent his whole life trying to live up to an image of a god, not a man – for so they had all painted him. They had even given him his father's name. He had had another once; he knew that much. But all memory of it had been driven out long ago.

It was in this house he had been given the weapons of hatred – the tools, the skills, the burning drive. They had done their best to burn out all other emotion in him save the desire to please, to serve, to be worthy of a name which was not his. He was their tool, their weapon, their perfect little automaton in all respects – save one.

They allowed him to still feel love. And he had fallen in love with their beautiful, perfect, innocent daughter.

Juliet.

For love of her, he had been disobedient. He had been her playmate; for her, he had broken rules to bring her flowers and make her smile. The more firmly they had tried to twist him into something he should never have been, the more that small spark of devotion inside flamed into rebellion.

He was a damned monster who lived only to be their tool of vengeance; and yet, in their daughter, he saw salvation. Juliet never saw him as they did – or even as he himself did. She saw the goodness in him even when he despaired of it himself. When he felt most damned to hell, he saw a small glimpse of heaven in her smile.

He still remembered the first time he killed a man. He remembered how he had repeatedly washed his hands afterwards, desperately trying to clean off the blood. No matter how hard he tried to scrub away the taint of death, the water still ran red. It was Juliet who had drawn him away, bandaged the hands he had scrubbed raw and bleeding, and gently wiped away the tears of guilt and self-loathing. She did not ask him what had happened, and he could not have told her; all that mattered to her was that her cousin hurt and she tried, in her own way, to ease his pain, singing softly to soothe his wounded spirit.

When his uncle beat him later for his weakness, he bore it stoically, holding the memory of her voice as a talisman in his heart against the pain. And as his back bled, he took that pain and added it to the store of hate in his heart.

He learned to kill without flinching. He learned to kill well, to be the name men feared. He was the perfect weapon and he served without question. He kept the pain inside and it gave him strength when he faltered. But he kept the darkness away from Juliet. He was of the night, but she was the sun. In her light he could feel alive.

His aunt bestowed love upon him – but her love smothered him, given for love of a brother who died too young. In his raven-black hair and green eyes she saw the brother she had lost, never seeing the young man he was becoming. She protected him from the worst of his uncle's rage, gave him the books he yearned for as well as the blades his uncle insisted upon. She it was who insisted Tybalt must learn to master the pen as well as the sword, to perfect the indirect destruction of one's enemy when the blade could not reach. She it was who brought him doctors when the first seizures struck; it was in his arms he would awaken as she stroked the hair back from his forehead and wiped the blood from his lips.

Her love stifled him. She chained him to the man her brother had been; a man he had never known. She enslaved him to a memory he could never hope to live. She doomed him to an unattainable goal by dint of his mere existence.

And she awakened in him dark feelings and yearnings. She kept her dalliances of the flesh from her husband – but not from her nephew. He knew the men she took to her bed. And it was she who led the first whore to his. _A gift from your father_ , she had whispered as the dark-haired woman had taken him in hand. 

She was his first whore. She was not the last. None of them fulfilled him; at most they drove away his demons for a brief while.

He loved Juliet. But she was too good, too pure for him to dream of sullying her the way he had been tainted. He kept his silence, and dreamed; but even there his dreams were tainted. It was Juliet he worshipped, but Lady Capulet who bewitched him. As he became a man, she saw in him still her brother – but also a man like so many other men she had used, and he too was one more plaything to be manipulated. She knew all the whore's wiles, and she used them to ensnare him even further to her will. 

Her kisses were always chaste, but they burned. Oh, how they had burned.

And now he lay under the roof where a young boy had been turned into a killer, and he wondered how anyone could love a monster like him. And yet, though impossible it seemed, they did. His beloved Juliet, who did not see the blood that stained his hands and his heart – and Mercutio who saw it but loved him anyway.

He should be happy. He _should_ be happy. And yet....

And yet.

He stared at the brocade canopy and sighed. His aunt and uncle may be gone from this house, but the chains they had wrought about him still held him as firmly as ever they had. Maybe he had freed himself from being the creature born of their hate – but he was still tied to them by responsibility and duty. He could not leave Juliet at the mercy of the black marketeers and gun-runners his uncle's business was entwined with, or the illicit dealings of the other houses. He could not abandon her to flounder in the nest of vipers that was Verona and all her politics. He had to take her place; he had been trained to this work. He had always protected Juliet, and he was still protecting her. He would protect her with his last breath.

He sat up slowly. He dreaded the visit to the family crypt, but it had to be done. There was a stranger buried there in his name, and he needed to know _who_ and he needed to know _why_. And he needed to do it alone. He couldn't, in all conscience, ask Mercutio to come with him, and Juliet – No. He would spare her that. She had no need to be subjected to that.

He got to his feet as he exhaled slowly, and made his way to the door. As he opened it, his eyes fell on something small that lay on the carpet just before the door. As he bent over it to look at it closer, he realised it was a dead mouse.

It had been skinned.

 

***

 

He found Mercutio in the garden, chatting to Juliet as she pruned the roses. She was giggling at some joke he had made, but she set her basket and secateurs down as she caught sight of Tybalt. She ran to greet him, flinging her arms about his neck and kissing him lightly on the nose.

He tried to smile, but she pulled back slightly. 

“What's wrong?” she asked quietly.

“Where's Romeo?” he whispered.

“I think he was in the garage looking at the Bentley with Peter,” replied Juliet. “Something's wrong.”

“Hopefully not, but I'll feel happier when we go find him,” replied Tybalt, glancing at Mercutio who looked up with a warm smile as he picked up the basket and secateurs.

“Feeling better?” he asked as he wandered over to join them. He passed the basket to Juliet then slipped an arm around Tybalt's waist as he stepped closer to breathe in Tybalt's ear. “Am I forgiven?”

Tybalt closed his eyes. He couldn't tell them. 

“I need you to come with me,” he whispered.

“Oh?” replied Mercutio as he nuzzled his nose against the side of Tybalt's neck just beneath his ear. “Something important, or can it wait?”

Tybalt found himself tilting his head to one side as Mercutio tugged at his tie with a finger whilst kissing slowly along the line of Tybalt's jaw. Tybalt drew a slow breath.

“Maybe I should leave you two alone and go find my husband,” smiled Juliet. 

Tybalt opened his eyes and lifted a hand to call her back, but as his lips parted Mercutio seized his chance to claim them hungrily with a kiss as he slid his other hand into Tybalt's hair.

Tybalt made a faint sound of denial in the back of his throat but if Mercutio heard, he said nothing. He deepened the kiss, his tongue probing Tybalt's mouth insistently as he gave a needy moan, tugging gently at Tybalt's hair. Tybalt's faint inarticulate cry was swallowed by Mercutio as he pulled Tybalt hard against him. Tybalt lifted his hands to try to push Mercutio away just as he lifted his head to breathe.

“God, Tybalt, you have no idea how much I want you right now,” he panted. He dropped his hand to cup Tybalt's groin and palm him through his pants as he leaned in close. “I know you want it too,” he breathed.

Tybalt groaned as he felt his body begin to betray him. “Mercutio, this isn't a good time,” he managed to gasp.

“No, it's a _great_ time,” murmured Mercutio as he lightly nipped along Tybalt's jaw then released his hair to tug Tybalt's tie loose. “C'mon, no-one's around....” He lifted his other hand up to tug Tybalt's shirt free, then slid it down into the front of Tybalt's pants. “Mmmm, you _do_ want it, don't you?”

Tybalt closed his eyes and groaned softly in frustration. “Not here,” he whispered.

“Oh? Got somewhere better in mind?” smiled Mercutio as he nuzzled beneath Tybalt's chin; without thinking, Tybalt tilted his head back, and Mercutio gently worried at his throat lightly with his teeth.

Tybalt clutched at Mercutio and gasped as Mercutio's hand curled around his growing erection.

“Well?” purred Mercutio.

“Yes,” whispered Tybalt.

Mercutio chuckled as he slipped his hand out of Tybalt's pants then took his hand and led him further into the garden. Tybalt couldn't think straight. It had been too long, and Mercutio was right. He _did_ want this; wanted Mercutio. He followed him willingly to the sunken garden, and when Mercutio pushed him down to the soft grass beside the pool beneath the willow he surrendered, laying back and forgetting everything in those impossibly blue eyes.


	51. Chapter 51

Mercutio rested his back against the tree trunk and sighed contentedly. The garden was warm, the air heavy and somnolent beneath the willow tree as damselflies hovered over the dark, still waters of the pool.

Beside him, Tybalt slept peacefully, sprawled upon his back. His face was turned a little to one side, his dark hair tumbling in a tousled mess of black silk strands around his face and shoulders. His long dark lashes fanned out upon his cheeks, making dark semi-circles that almost obscured the hollow circles like bruises beneath his eyes, marks of far too many restless nights and lack of sleep. His lips were slightly parted, reddened still from the hunger of their kisses; it had seemed they were trying almost to devour each other, sharing one breath as Mercutio had coaxed the most beautifully plaintive, needy cries from Tybalt's throat. He smiled now to remember them; remember the way Tybalt's face had transformed, losing the haunted look that had become all too familiar of late.

He shifted down a bit to lean over Tybalt, resting his weight on his elbow as he gently carded his hand through the soft hair, smiling as he felt it slip through his fingers. Lightly he smoothed it away from Tybalt's sleeping face as he studied his aquiline profile. In sleep his face was relaxed, the stern forbidding glower that lingered often upon his brow giving way to a naked trusting openness in which Mercutio fancied he could see something perhaps of the boy Tybalt had once been; the man that may yet hide deep within Tybalt where even he himself could not dream of finding him.

He traced his forefinger very lightly down the side of Tybalt's face; the sleeping man did not stir as Mercutio's finger ghosted across his cheek down to the corner of those soft pink lips, then down the faint dimpled scar that ran across his jaw.

As Tybalt slept on peacefully, Mercutio let his finger drift further, gently tracing the line of Tybalt's jaw then brushing lightly across his scarred throat. He froze as Tybalt stirred slightly, his head shifting a little on the grass as he sighed softly, then grew still again.

Mercutio gently traced his fingertips across Tybalt's collarbone, then slowly down across his chest. He delicately explored an old scar that wound across Tybalt's shoulder; deeper at the top, growing more shallow and thin as it descended towards the smooth curve of his bicep. He wondered idly how Tybalt had come by such a wound.

He lightly caressed Tybalt's arm, running his fingers slowly from bicep down to wrist, admiring the play of light and shadows across the skin. Though slender, Tybalt was a strong man, his muscles well-defined; his was the body of a hunter, lean yet powerful – deceptively so. Clothed, Tybalt appeared lanky; some might even have mistaken his thinness for frailty. Yet no-one observing the way he moved or fought could ever think him weak.

Mercutio knew Tybalt did not think himself a graceful man, considering himself to be awkward, gawky, perhaps a little too tall – like some tall black heron, stalking its prey in the shadows amongst the dregs of humanity in the darker ways of Verona; yet Mercutio wished Tybalt could see himself now through Mercutio's eyes. He lay in abandoned repose, his limbs falling into a graceful sprawl, his long legs as beautiful as those of any dancer. His wrists were slender, yet Mercutio knew them to have supple strength and dexterity. He had the elegance of a predator, a hunter, a dancer of death yet capable of infinite tenderness rarely shown.

He explored the faint map of scars down Tybalt's right arm. They began with the knife wound upon his shoulder before Mercutio's questing fingers lightly ghosted around the slightly puckered dimple of an old bullet wound, long healed. Further down, a long thin line that wound from his bicep around to the back of the elbow. There were three curious raised scars, little more than round dots really, in a triangle pattern on the inside of Tybalt's forearm; they looked almost like burns or a brand, and Mercutio wondered at the story they told. He gently kissed each scar as he moved down over Tybalt's body before gently kissing each of the slender fingers that rested limply upon Tybalt's abdomen.

Tybalt stirred, his eyes slowly drifting open as he turned his head to gaze with unfocused eyes up at Mercutio. He smiled drowsily, his soft green eyes full of trust and dreams as they drifted closed again and he sank back into sleep once more.

Mercutio caught his breath as he stared down at Tybalt before exhaling slowly. He lay down beside Tybalt as he slept, and rested his head on his arm.

How on earth had he found himself in a relationship – an actual _relationship_ , by God! - with Tybalt Capulet, of all people? Had anyone told him eighteen months ago that he would be lying here beneath a tree in the garden of the Capulet mansion with Tybalt lying peacefully and trustingly next to him, and feel no need to stray elsewhere, he would have laughed himself silly, declared the speaker even madder than he, and promptly forgotten about it until next time he encountered the Capulet – at which point no doubt he would have used it as another way to twit him and see how far he could push Tybalt until he exploded into rage or violence. 

When had he allowed himself to let Tybalt in close enough to claim his commitment when none other ever had? He'd been so caught up in his own shallow pursuits, unwilling to let any see the real Mercutio inside save, perhaps, Romeo and Benvolio that it never occurred to him he could fall so swiftly for the last person on earth he would have considered. He had been so wrapped up in his bitterly unrequited yearning for Lady Montague's son that his obsession with Tybalt had seemed only an amusing distraction.

He felt a wistful regret over the thought of Benvolio. Their friendship had been strained by his seeming betrayal of Tybalt and Juliet to Lady Montague's troops. Mercutio still held him responsible for Tybalt's injuries at their hands; when he thought how close they might have come to killing him, he felt an almost overwhelming rage that -

He froze, shocked, as he realised just how easily his anger had been aroused simply from the memory of how Tybalt had been treated. He blinked slowly as he ran a hand gently over Tybalt's hip as much to reassure himself that Tybalt was safe as anything else. His skin was warm and smooth beneath his hand, the finest of light hairs tickling his palm as it swept down Tybalt's thigh, the skin marred only by the scar left by the bullet wound.

He felt protective of Tybalt in a way he had only previously felt towards Valentine. He had thought he could never find another who would fill that empty hole in his life with the death of his brother. Tybalt was different from Valentine, yet he seemed to compliment him in a way neither Romeo nor Benvolio ever quite had. He seemed to understand Mercutio, even if Mercutio still managed to wind him up chronically on occasion; there was more of a wry acceptance there. 

Not that Mercutio never made a misstep with Tybalt; Tybalt's unexpected explosion of anger earlier over a teasing nickname Mercutio had used for him for years for example. He knew the moniker annoyed Tybalt but it had never aroused his ire to that extent. Perhaps he was more bothered over the disappearance of the cat than he'd let on; Mercutio knew Tybalt had been very fond of it and been comforted by Marlowe's silent, affectionate presence. He felt a strange, disquieting sense of vague guilt he couldn’t fathom. He frowned then shook his head, pushing the odd feeling to the back of his mind.

Tybalt stirred restlessly again as a cool breeze stirred the willow branches into a soft susurrus of leaves and trailed light ripples across the dark surface of the pool. He murmured something indistinct, his hand shifting slightly upon his chest as he turned his face towards Mercutio as his eyelids fluttered.

“Shh, sleep,” whispered Mercutio gently as Tybalt frowned slightly, opening his eyes.

“What time is it?” Tybalt asked, his voice rough and thick with sleep. Mercutio glanced at his watch.

“Just after four,” he answered. “You needed the rest.”

Tybalt rubbed his eyes slowly and took a slow, deep breath. “I wanted to get to the crypt before dark,” he murmured.

“The crypt?” echoed Mercutio, curious. “Is that where you wanted me to go with you?”

“Mmm,” agreed Tybalt. 

“I don't blame you for not wanting to go alone,” said Mercutio gently. “Are you sure you want to do this? We could just wait for the exhumation order and wait for the report. There's no need for us to go, really.”

“No, they've stalled too long and I need to see for myself,” replied Tybalt. Mercutio pulled a face.

“It won't be pleasant,” he warned him. “It's been a few months now.”

Tybalt sat up, and Mercutio pushed himself up to sitting next to him. He shifted around so he was behind Tybalt and wrapped his arms around him, resting his chin on Tybalt's shoulder.

“I'm not looking forward to it,” Tybalt confessed in a whisper. “But I have to know.”

“It's been there this long. It can wait another day,” said Mercutio as he turned his head slightly to kiss the side of Tybalt's neck. Tybalt inclined his head slightly and Mercutio began to slowly trail light kisses along his neck then across his shoulder. “You need a while to relax. You've been so tense and stiff recently. You needed the sleep. You have no idea how good it was to see you sleeping so peacefully.” He reached up and gently nibbled on Tybalt's earlobe before teasingly whispering in his ear, “You were even smiling in your sleep.”

Tybalt snorted, and Mercutio grinned. “You were! It was very cute.” He flicked his tongue over the shell of Tybalt's ear.

Tybalt pulled away with a half-hearted sound of annoyance. “I am _not_ cute,” he muttered.

“I beg to differ,” grinned Mercutio. “So sweet lying there, fast asleep. I could just eat you up.” He worried Tybalt's shoulder lightly with his teeth.

“Mercutio....” groaned Tybalt. “Behave.”

“I _am_ behaving!” protested Mercutio.

“Badly,” replied Tybalt.

“But of course. What else do you expect?” Mercutio's grin was unrepentant against Tybalt's shoulder. He felt the soft sigh that rumbled deep in Tybalt's chest. “You know you love me really.”

Tybalt's answer was a low rusty laugh. “I wonder why sometimes.”

“You are overcome by my devastating wit and irresistible charm,” replied Mercutio blithely. “Not to mention blinded by my amazing good looks.”

“Don't forget your astounding vanity and ridiculously overinflated ego,” replied Tybalt drily.

“Goes with the territory, oh Prince -” he checked himself suddenly as he felt Tybalt stiffen in his arms with a sharp intake of breath. “Of my heart,” he finished, and was rewarded as Tybalt slowly relaxed against him slowly, letting his head drop back onto Mercutio's shoulder.

“Very smooth,” he whispered.

“That I am,” agreed Mercutio. “Also sorry for having upset you earlier.”

“Mercutio Escalus, apologising?” Tybalt lifted his head and craned his neck around to stare up at the sky through the tree branches.

“What are you looking for?” asked Mercutio.

“Flying pigs,” replied Tybalt.

Mercutio gave a mock-dramatic gasp and then laughed.

“I should bite you for that!” he replied. Tybalt turned and eyed him over his shoulder, baring his teeth in a grin.

“You're welcome to try,” he answered.

“Is that a dare?” exclaimed Mercutio. “Oh ho, you're _daring_ me?” His arms abruptly tightened around Tybalt, pinning his arms to his sides; Tybalt folded his long legs beneath him then suddenly lurched forward as he twisted around, wrapping his own arms around Mercutio and hefting him up off his feet as he stood, breaking Mercutio's grip on his arms. 

Mercutio hastily grabbed at Tybalt's shoulders as he wrapped his legs around Tybalt's waist, laughing as Tybalt tried to wrestle him off, then cried out in surprise as Tybalt dropped backwards and rolled, throwing Mercutio forward over his shoulder as he came back up to his feet in a crouch and twisted round to stare at Mercutio over his shoulder, grinning in turn.

Mercutio came to his own feet with his back to Tybalt; as he turned Tybalt slammed his shoulder into Mercutio's back as he flung his arms around him, and they both went down. Mercutio twisted and tried to throw Tybalt over his hip, but Tybalt shifted his grip to grasp Mercutio's shoulder and suddenly they were rolling down the bank as the pool raced up to meet them. 

Tybalt hit the water first and Mercutio saw his eyes widen briefly in alarm as the water closed over his face, and then Mercutio hit the water.

He felt Tybalt let go and try to push away beneath him. The water was dark; Mercutio could just make out Tybalt's face below him, tinted a ghostly green by the water. His eyes were open and staring up at Mercutio as he spread his arms out to either side slowing his drift downwards.

Mercutio reached down for Tybalt but the other man gave him an enigmatic smile as he twisted around in the water and with a smooth kick vanished into the darkness of the pool. Mercutio struck out for the surface and breathed in air with a gasp before shaking his wet hair out of his eyes. He glanced around for Tybalt as he floated, treading water.

Across the pool Tybalt's head broke the surface, his hair sleek and black, plastered against his head. He turned and glanced across the pool at Mercutio and smiled before diving back beneath the surface of the water. Mercutio could see his pale form slipping smoothly towards him, his skin mottled green by the water as his dark hair streamed behind in his wake. He resembled nothing so much as some strange denizen of the water; some fey water spirit perhaps, his movements graceful and almost hypnotic. He paused and stared up through the water at Mercutio, his hair fanning up around his face, and then he was surfacing next to Mercutio and laughing breathlessly.

“You were staring at me,” he whispered.

“Was I?” asked Mercutio distractedly. “I never knew you could swim like that. You looked like a water nymph or spirit.”

Tybalt gave him a strange look, then struck out for the bank. Mercutio followed after him. They climbed out, and Tybalt sat on the side of the pool with his feet dangling in the water as he wrung the water out of his hair before tossing the damp locks back over his shoulders.

“How deep is the pool?” asked Mercutio. Tybalt shrugged.

“I've never dived to the bottom; too dark down there. I nearly drowned the last time I tried.”

“You, drown? I can't believe it – not after seeing you swim like that,” objected Mercutio.

“I was only ten,” shrugged Tybalt. “I don't remember learning to swim; it's just something I've always been able to do.”

Mercutio leaned in close to him. “You have no idea how beautiful you are,” he breathed, brushing his lips against Tybalt's.

Tybalt merely smiled. “You're a strange creature,” he whispered.

“Takes one to know one,” murmured Mercutio as Tybalt turned away; if Tybalt heard him, he gave no sign as he drew his long legs out of the water and reached for his clothes.

They dressed in companionable silence then headed back through the garden. When Mercutio slipped his arm through Tybalt's, he said nothing but smiled.

They made their way slowly back to the house.


	52. Chapter 52

Mercutio set his hand on Tybalt's shoulder as he was about to start heading down the stairs to the crypt. Tybalt paused and glanced back at him.

“You don't have to do this, Tybalt,” he said quietly. “What are you expecting to find?”

“I don't know. I won't know until I look,” replied Tybalt quietly. He turned back and started slowly down the stairs.

Truth be told, he was dreading this. The body would have been down there for two and a half months by now – and there was no telling how old the body was before it ended up in the coffin intended for him. He didn't recall an overpowering stench of putrefaction in the brief time he had spent in the tomb waiting for Juliet to awaken, so he supposed it must have been reasonably fresh. He wondered absently if it had been embalmed as he turned the key in the lock.

The stench hit him the moment the door opened. A foetid miasma of decay and rot seemed to hang in the air and he remembered the weather had been particularly hot the past few weeks. Even embalmed, any body would have reached a fairly unpleasant stage of decomposition after ten weeks in a coffin on a shelf in a crypt, even below ground. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his mouth and nose; it didn't help much.

He heard Mercutio retching behind him, and he glanced back.

“You don't have to come,” he whispered softly. “You can wait up top.”

Mercutio shook his head. “No, I'll – I'll be alright in a minute,” he gasped, fishing in his pocket for his own handkerchief.

Tybalt shook his head and turned back towards the crypt.

The smell worsened the further into the crypt he went. The newer burials were towards the far end, he recalled, in the second chamber. His father's tomb was there, as was the bier where Juliet had been laid.

He had to wonder at that, as he made his way past shelves filled with skeletal remains with the odd casket here and there. What decided whether a body was laid to rest in a casket, which in a stone tomb, and which upon a bier? Would Juliet have been laid to rest eventually in one of these niches? Had he died, would he? What was so dreadful about this body that they used a coffin – or was it simply because they were afraid someone might look too closely at the dead man's face?

The smell was infinitely worse in the second chamber; he felt his stomach heave rebelliously. Behind him he could hear Mercutio taking shallow, frantic gasps as he tried not to breathe in too much of the stench, somehow managing to keep up a litany of swears under his breath.

Ignoring him, Tybalt made his way around the stone bier where Juliet had laid, towards his father's tomb. A dark mahogany coffin rested upon the stone shelf about fifteen inches above the surface of the tomb where Tybalt himself had lain that night. As Tybalt studied the small brass plaque bearing his name etched upon it, he felt a cold chill run down his spine. He reached up and traced the copperplate script slowly. It was a strange thing, to look upon his own name here in this place of death, and know he had lain beneath his own coffin.

“Tybalt?” asked Mercutio just behind him, breaking his reverie. Tybalt shook his head sharply to dispel the disquieting feeling. He laid the crowbar in his hand down upon the lid of his father's tomb and reached up for the nearest brass handle. 

“Help me lift it down onto the bier,” he whispered.

Between them they managed to swing the coffin down onto the stone bier. Tybalt tried to ignore the foul-smelling liquid that oozed and dripped from the wood to spatter onto the floor, though he endeavoured to keep it off his shoes. Mercutio swore as he did likewise.

The smell was indescribable. Tybalt hesitated as he inserted the edge of the crowbar under the edge of the coffin lid and glanced up at Mercutio, who looked about as enthusiastic for what was to come next as he was. He drew a slow breath, then wrenched the crowbar down. With a screech of protesting, splintering wood the lid was wrenched free of the nails holding it shut and slid off. Tybalt straightened and glanced down at the body, then abruptly whirled away, staggering to the corner where he vomited. 

From the sounds of things, Mercutio wasn't doing much better. 

Tybalt's stomach twisted and spasmed until it was empty, retching uselessly, his throat burning from the bile. He wiped his mouth with the back of his shaking hand as he slowly straightened then turned to glance over his shoulder; Mercutio's eyes met his.

The first whiff was always the worst; his uncle had told him that once, and as Tybalt made his way back to the coffin with a feeling of dread he found it was so. The stench was as rank and foul as before, but somehow he could tolerate it a little better. Mercutio hung back, watching Tybalt with something like newfound respect or possibly simply disbelief as Tybalt stepped back up to the side of the bier. Pulling a pair of disposable vinyl gloves on, he shed his coat and handed it to Mercutio before rolling his sleeves up then bent over the coffin once more.

It wasn't the worst-looking corpse Tybalt could remember ever seeing, he found himself dispassionately reflecting as he studied it with his eyes. That had been the body of one of his uncle's men fished out of a sewer after rotting there for four months. This body was at least still vaguely recognisable as human. What he found most unnerving was the long black hair that was uncannily reminiscent of his own. Though putrefaction had discoloured and changed the face, it was still recognisable as superficially familiar to his own. 

The throat had been slashed, but something seemed wrong about the cut. He was no specialist in forensics, yet he had the distinct impression that there was something altogether too neat about the cut. This was no wild slash inflicted in anger in the heat of a fight but a precise cut made whilst the body were still. Dead, perhaps.

He reached down and tugged open the once-white shirt which was stained dark with decaying bodily fluids; as it slowly peeled open, insects scuttled out and a waft of stinking putrid air caused him to reel back for a moment, his eyes stinging from the fumes.

He stood there for a moment, face turned away as he blinked his eyes rapidly to clear them.

“Are you OK?” asked Mercutio, his voice hushed. Tybalt raised a hand and nodded before turning back to the body.

He drew a scalpel out of his pocket and uncapped it, then reached down with both hands to begin steadily cutting open the t-shirt beneath the shirt. He had no idea what to expect or see. He peeled the pieces of fabric aside then stared down at the corpse, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He pulled his small maglight from his pocket and flicked it on, playing the small beam over the glistening body as he narrowed his eyes. Something was wrong.

Then it hit him, and he felt his breath sucked from his body as he was suddenly sheeted in cold sweat. His hands were shaking as he staggered back, mind reeling with horror. 

He was vaguely aware of turning towards Mercutio, who caught him as his knees gave way. 

“Tybalt! What's wrong, what did you see?” exclaimed Mercutio, eyes wide in concern. Tybalt tried to speak but the words wouldn't come. He was hyperventilating, his heart hammering frantically in his chest as his fingers grew numb, his hands tingling as darkness encroached upon his vision. He couldn't get the words out. He felt himself falling, still unable to tell mercutio what was so horrifying in the casket as he fainted.

The man had been flayed. Most likely alive.

 

***

 

He came back to consciousness slowly. He was vaguely aware of a cool breeze blowing over his face, and the air tasted sweet and fresh. He was sprawled upon the ground – grass? - and someone had their arm around his shoulders. He could taste the sting of brandy upon his tongue; as he tried to open his eyes, he felt the cold hard rim of a metal flask press against his lips and liquid spilling into his mouth. He coughed as the brandy burned his throat and tried to bat the hand holding the flask away.

“I think he's coming round.” He knew that voice. Father Lawrence?

“Oh thank God,” replied another voice. _Mercutio_. “I was afraid he was going to have another fit.”

“What were you two doing down there?” A third voice – Benvolio? “I would have thought he'd had enough of that tomb after the last time.”

“None of your damned business,” Tybalt managed hoarsely as he opened his eyes to glare up at Benvolio.

Benvolio opened his mouth to argue but subsided when Father Lawrence raised a hand to silence him.

“You gave me one hell of a fright,” said Mercutio. 

“Nothing like the one I just got,” whispered Tybalt.

“What did you see?” Mercutio replied quietly. “I can't imagine anything that could make you faint like that.”

“A dead man. Skinned,” replied Tybalt.

Father Lawrence crossed himself hastily and even Benvolio looked unnerved. Mercutio looked sick to his stomach.

“Was -” Mercutio had to stop, swallowing hard before he could go on. “Was that what you were expecting to find?”

Tybalt shook his head. “I'm not sure what I expected to find, but that certainly wasn't it,” he replied slowly. 

He sat up slowly with Mercutio's help, then between them Mercutio and Father Lawrence managed to get him back to his feet.

“What now?” asked Mercutio; Tybalt shook his head slowly.

“No idea. I need to think what this means.”

“Mercutio,” said Benvolio quietly. Mercutio glared at him.

“Save it – there's nothing you have to say that I want to hear,” he snarled.

“Peace, Mercutio,” said Father Lawrence placatingly. “Benvolio came to me with something he heard earlier this evening. We both thought you should hear it. We were on the way to the palace to tell you when we noticed you struggling to carry Tybalt out of this crypt and came to help.”

Mercutio glared at him. “Well, out with it then, and then begone and get out of my sight,” he said ungraciously.

“Not here,” Benvolio said quietly. “Somewhere private.”

Tybalt and Mercutio exchanged a glance. “I guess you'd best come with us back to the Capulet estate then,” said Mercutio heavily.

Benvolio and Father Lawrence exchanged a worried glance, and Tybalt felt his heart sink.

“Something has happened. Something involving the estate.” 

Benvolio nodded, and Mercutio swore.

“What's that bitch Lady Montague done this time?” 

“Not Lady Montague; it was from her that the intelligence came,” answered Father Lawrence hastily. 

“She got word from one of her people that known Capulet agents were sighted near the estate. She sent word to Prince Escalus but I wanted to come and warn you myself,” added Benvolio. “I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you or Romeo and I hadn't warned you. I know what happened to Tybalt was unforgivable -” he darted a glance at Tybalt who merely stared at him impassively. “But I honestly didn't know that would happen, I swear. Tybalt was wounded and I just figured that even if he was a prisoner of the Montagues, he'd at least get treatment. I had no idea she'd try to execute him without the Prince's authority.”

“You are either a liar or far more stupid than I had given you credit for,” stated Tybalt coldly. “I have not the time to care either way. If Capulets are moving against the estate then we need to get back there.”

Mercutio nodded then glared at Benvolio. “You're coming with us, and no arguments,” he said. “You can start trying to put things right by making yourself useful.”

“I shall carry on to the palace and raise the guard,” said Father Lawrence, nodding. Tybalt was already striding through the long grass between tombs and graves back towards the entrance to the cemetery and their waiting car.

If anything had happened to Juliet or her husband, someone would pay. Preferably with their life.


	53. Chapter 53

The car screamed to a halt in the driveway before the mansion; Tybalt was out of the car and moving before it could fully come to a halt, Mercutio only just behind him. The front door stood ajar, and Tybalt sprinted inside. Benvolio scrambled out hastily behind them, already reaching for his gun and checking the clip. He looked to Mercutio.

Mercutio leaned into the driver's window as the man rolled down the window; he was one of his uncle's men. “Give me your gun then radio the guard.”

The driver handed him his semi-auto pistol and two spare clips without question and was already radioing base as Mercutio sprinted into the house behind Tybalt, Benvolio following on his heels.

The house showed the signs of recent battle; two men lay sprawled dead upon the floor in the entry hall. Sounds of struggling echoed down the stairs; Tybalt's hoarse cry had Mercutio racing up the stairs, his long legs taking them two at a time as he sprang upward, following the sound to the master bedroom that Romeo and Juliet had taken for their own. He leapt over three more bodies and sped down the hall. Behind him he could hear Benvolio panting as he tried to keep up.

Up ahead he could see three figures wrestling, silhouetted in the light from the open doorway. One figure was unmistakably Tybalt, tall, his long leather coat flapping around him as he struggled, his long hair coming loose from the ponytail. His hand suddenly jerked outwards and there was a spray of blood as one of his attackers dropped. The other tackled Tybalt from behind.

Mercutio raised the gun, muttered a fervent prayer and squeezed the trigger. The gun barked twice, the sound deafening in the narrow hallway, and one of the figures dropped. He heard a muttered curse as the other slumped against the doorway, one arm hanging limp at his side as he flicked blood off the blade in his hand.

Tybalt looked up as Mercutio skidded to a halt beside him, his brow furrowed in anger as he sheathed his knife then clenched a hand around his upper left arm. “Never mind me, check on Juliet,” he hissed with a jerk of his chin towards the bedroom.

“Only you would bring a knife to a gunfight, Tybalt Capulet,” Mercutio grinned. Tybalt's answer was a savage grin then he jerked his chin at the corpse at his feet, the throat slashed open.

“He's dead, isn't he?” he whispered. “Go. Juliet.”

Mercutio nodded and turned to the bedroom. 

The room was a mess. Furniture had been overturned, bedding and clothes strewn around, books scattered. Four dead men lay sprawled about the room, blood had been sprayed up the wall beside the bed and splattered across the dresser mirror. The carpet was stained with further pools of blood.

Juliet was crouched in the corner of the room, her eyes wide, blood covering half her face and her clothes drenched. The handgun clutched in her hands was aimed squarely at Mercutio's chest, her grip firm and unwavering.

Mercutio thumbed on the safety and tossed his gun away from him as he raised his hands slowly.

“Easy, Juliet, it's me. Mercutio. I'm unarmed.” He kept his voice low, quiet and unthreatening. “They're dead. All the men are dead except me and Tybalt. He's over by the door.”

Juliet stared at him for long moments, then lowered the gun a fraction as she darted her glance towards the doorway; Mercutio didn't look around and take his eyes off her. He breathed an inward sigh of relief as she lowered her gun and thumbed the safety on; only then did he lower his arms.

“Tybalt?” Her voice wavered, and then she launched herself across the floor and flung herself into his arms and began sobbing as he wrapped his good arm around her and held her close.

“I'm here, you're safe, I'm here now,” he murmured quietly. Benvolio stepped around them carefully and nodded to Mercutio as he holstered his gun then began checking the bodies.

Mercutio drew a deep breath then retrieved his gun, double-checking the safety was still on before tucking it into his belt at his back then picking up Juliet's gun. Then he made a circuit of the room, toeing over the corpses with Benvolio and crouching to check for ID or insignia.

“They took him – they took Romeo,” gasped Juliet. “I tried to fight them off but there were too many of them. They took him, Tybalt!” Benvolio looked up then closed his eyes and swore softly to himself; Mercutio spared him a sympathetic look. He was still mad at him, but he shared his worry and dread.

“Shh, shh, we'll get him back, I swear,” whispered Tybalt as he gently stroked her hair. “Are you hurt? Is any of this blood yours?”

She shook her head. “Theirs, I think. Tybalt, they shot Romeo. I don't know how bad, but they shot him.”

Tybalt lifted his head and glanced at Mercutio, his eyes dark and angry. “They'll pay, Juliet.”

Mercutio nodded. “We'll get the bastards.”

Tybalt glanced at the bodies. “Capulets?” Mercutio and Benvolio both nodded, and Tybalt swore. He bowed his head and pressed his forehead to Juliet's. They both stood silent, eyes closed.

“You know what this means,” he whispered to her softly. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” she breathed. “Do what you have to.” 

He pulled away slightly and nodded. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she whispered and leaned up to kiss him. “You'll save him.” It was a statement, not a question, but Tybalt nodded. “That's all I ask,” she said softly.

Benvolio got to his feet as they heard booted feet pounding into the hallway below. “That'll be the guard,” he observed as he stepped over the corpses in the doorway and made his way down the hall to meet them. “Nice knifework,” he called back over his shoulder. Tybalt ignored him.

Juliet stepped back then caught at Tybalt's left arm. “You're hurt,” she said softly.

“It's nothing,” replied Tybalt. “One of them nicked me with his knife. Looks worse than it is; the leather took most of the damage.”

“I don't get it – they were armed with guns but Juliet's unharmed and they only went after you with a knife,” said Mercutio slowly.

“There was one man who seemed to be in charge,” answered Juliet. “They were shouting to take any Capulets alive and kill the rest as they were dragging Romeo away. I think they expected to find Tybalt here as well.”

“Got more than they bargained for,” snorted Mercutio as he helped Tybalt slip his arm out of the coat sleeve. There was a slash across the sleeve, the edges stained dark with blood, but the cut seemed clean and fairly shallow. “Another scar to your tally on that arm,” he remarked.

“You make a habit of counting my scars, Escalus?” whispered Tybalt, arching one eyebrow.

“Occasionally,” grinned Mercutio. “Mine are all rather boring but yours look interesting.”

Tybalt shrugged. “They only show where I was foolish and slow,” he said dismissively. “Hardly something to brag about.”

There was the sound of feet pounding up the stairs and Benvolio reappeared with the unit captain.

“Lord Escalus,” nodded the captain. “My men are securing the house and there's a medic team en route. Any survivors?”

“Not amongst the intruders,” answered Mercutio. “We'll need a clean-up crew here once your men are done.”

“Yes, sir,” nodded the captain. “Any further orders?”

“Check the servants are OK, and detail an escort for us back to the palace. Advise my uncle that Romeo Montague has been kidnapped by the Capulets and inform him I will report to him as soon as the Lady Juliet Montague has been settled into appropriate quarters.” He was aware of Tybalt, Juliet and Benvolio staring at him, Tybalt narrowing his eyes in anger but saying nothing. “I want a unit of guards stationed here until further notice,” he added.

“What about me?” asked Benvolio as the captain saluted then headed back downstairs.

“You come with us for now,” decided Mercutio.

“Lady Juliet _Montague_?” hissed Tybalt; Juliet laid a hand on his arm.

“I _am_ married to one now,” she reminded him gently. He turned and glared at her, then glanced away.

“Let's get back to the palace,” said Mercutio.

Two female guards helped Juliet pack essentials as Tybalt headed off to his own room to retrieve some personal effects, He shrugged off the medics irritably as they tried to treat his arm; they looked to Mercutio, who merely shook his head. He knew only too well there was no point pushing Tybalt when he was in this mood.

They headed back to the palace in an armoured personnel carrier. They were silent on the journey; Tybalt sat next to Juliet, their fingers entwined. Mercutio sat opposite Tybalt, with Benvolio next to him. Mercutio was aware of Benvolio glancing at him frequently, as though trying to build up the nerve to speak, but Mercutio ignored him. Tybalt gave no sign of noticing Benvolio even existed.

The APC pulled into the grounds of the palace. There were four checkpoints to go through before they reached the palace itself; it looked like Prince Escalus were taking no chances after the last time the Capulets had attacked. They were waved through the gate into the inner courtyard by guards around the arch, and there were four further units in the inner courtyard. Two of them formed up around the APC to escort them to the main entrance of the palace where further armed guards stood alert.

They headed up towards the guest wing, and Mercutio noted the heavy guard presence everywhere. Captain Morgan himself was waiting at the main entrance to the guest wing; he saluted Mercutio as they approached.

“Lord Escalus, we have guards posted on all floors, with additional guards stationed outside your rooms, Lord Capulet's and Lady Montague's suites.”

Mercutio was aware of Tybalt's suddenly involuntary twitch as he realised the captain was referring to him with his uncle's title.

“I am no lord,” he whispered tersely. Mercutio held up his hand to forestall any further objection; he thought Tybalt was about to argue but then he broke off to glance down at Juliet's hand in his own, then up at Juliet. He subsided, a glower darkening his features.

“Your uncle is awaiting you in the council chamber,” added the captain.

Mercutio nodded. “I will be there directly the Lady Juliet and Tybalt have been settled.”

“I'll be coming with you,” disagreed Tybalt. Mercutio shot him a glance then nodded.

“I'll have word sent immediately,” replied the captain.

They headed straight for the suite Juliet had originally occupied with Romeo. Mercutio nodded to the guards outside the suite doors as they saluted; once inside he firmly closed the doors.

“Lady Montague? _Lord Capulet_?” exclaimed Tybalt in an angry growl as he rounded on Mercutio.

Mercutio shrugged. “Technically the title is yours, seeing as your uncle has supposedly fled Verona and the Prince has awarded his estates and holdings to both you and Juliet. The title goes with the estate.”

“I don't _want_ the damned title!” snarled Tybalt. “It should never have been mine to begin with! Let the title go to Juliet's children when she has them, or let it die with _him_ \- but I want none of it!”

“Take it up with my uncle,” replied Mercutio drily.

Benvolio shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. Tybalt, distracted by the movement, turned on him. “And what the hell is _he_ still doing here?” he spat.

“I've yet to decide,” replied Mercutio, sparing Benvolio a brief glance before turning back to Tybalt. “He's got a lot to make up to both you and Juliet, and I haven't forgotten.”

“Get out,” Tybalt snarled at Benvolio before turning his back on him. Juliet went to him and took his hand once more, staring up at him as he lowered his head. He laid his hand slowly over hers but said nothing.

Mercutio could guess at the reasons for Tybalt's sudden outburst of anger of course. It wasn't the use of the title or Juliet's name, or even Benvolio's presence; they were handy targets for his ire, but at heart he knew Tybalt was blaming himself for not being there when the Capulets attacked.

He glanced at Benvolio. “Go outside and wait in the hall,” he ordered him. Benvolio nodded silently and let himself out. Mercutio crossed the room and rested his hands gently on Tybalt's shoulders. He was stiff and tense; Mercutio felt him start to shake his hands off then stop.

“It wasn't your fault,” Mercutio said quietly.

“I should have been there,” Tybalt whispered.

“Well you weren't, and castigating yourself isn't going to change that,” replied Mercutio. “How does blaming yourself help Romeo any?”

Tybalt drew in his breath sharply then slowly exhaled before nodding slowly. “I understand your point,” he replied quietly. He lifted his eyes to Juliet. “You should take a bath, wash your hair, change into something clean,” he said quietly. She nodded.

“And you should have your arm looked at,” she answered, giving his hands a firm shake.

He snorted, a sound that was almost a laugh. “I will,” he nodded. He turned to Mercutio as he released her hands.

“Let's go,” he whispered. Mercutio nodded.

As they walked back through the palace, heading for the council chamber, Mercutio couldn't shake the feeling that a storm was gathering – and they were about to walk right into its heart.


	54. Chapter 54

Mercutio and his uncle sat at the council table, several of the Prince's advisers seated around the large polished wooden conference table. Benvolio leaned against the wall near the door, looking out of place and forgotten (and seemingly quite glad to be so).

Tybalt was too restless to sit still. He paced by the large picture window overlooking the inner courtyard as the Prince glanced over the reports Captain Morgan had handed him.

Mercutio glanced up as Tybalt's pacing brought him near his chair. “Sit down, you're making me restless just _looking_ at you,” he murmured.

Tybalt shook his head. He couldn't bear to sit by idle. He'd promised Juliet he would return her husband to her, and regardless of how he may or may not feel about the Montague, he had given his word. He felt like a spring wound too tight, and though his pacing achieved little, it was an outlet for the nervous energy that surged through him. He was still riding a wave of adrenaline, his heart racing yet.

The Prince exhaled slowly through his nose. “It looks like their targets were Romeo, Juliet and Tybalt. They hadn't counted on Tybalt being away from the house – or on Juliet putting up such a strenuous defence. They'd hoped to take advantage of the late hour to catch all three and the household staff off guard. Evidently they'd studied guard patrol patterns; they timed the raid perfectly between passes. We must assume they'd had their spies in the city for some time.” He glanced over at Tybalt. “How many of the staff in the house had been retained from before you took possession?”

Tybalt paused and glanced over to the Prince. “Very few. My valet Peter; Juliet's nurse – Alfonso, my father's retainer. A cook who stayed when the rest of the household fled.”

“The valet, the nurse, your father's retainer – you trust for these people, you would vouch for them?” asked Escalus steadily.

“Juliet's nurse would die before she betrayed her charge,” stated Tybalt flatly. “Peter came to me here in the palace with her; I have never had cause to doubt his faithfulness. And Alfonso was with my father on the night he died. He served my father to the end and has served me ever since, boy and man.”

“And the cook?” asked the captain. Tybalt glanced at him.

“I... cannot say,” he whispered after a pause. “I didn't know the kitchen staff well.”

“Would you know this cook if you saw them again?”

Tybalt shook his head. “Alfonso would.”

The captain turned to one of his aides, muttering briefly to him' the man saluted then left the room.

“What is this? Why are we not going after them?” demanded Tybalt in a harsh whisper.

“We don't know where they went,” said Mercutio quietly. “We only know they're not in Verona.”

“Mantua,” hissed Tybalt. “I'd stake my life on it.”

“Would you stake Romeo's?” asked Benvolio suddenly, drawing all eyes to him. Tybalt's head jerked up and he fixed Benvolio with a baleful stare.

“My uncle has many holdings in Mantua,” he said softly. 

“As does Paris,” added the Prince. “It does seem the most likely place – but if he is in Mantua we have a problem.”

“Why? Just call up our household troops, head right on in and take him back!” argued Mercutio. The Prince sighed.

“You still have much to learn of politics, my nephew,” he said heavily.

“Mantua is an independent city-state just as Verona is,” whispered Tybalt as he nodded. He knew only too well what the Prince was alluding to.

Though technically allied to Verona through trade and commerce agreements, Mantua was sworn to Milan. Direct military intervention in Mantua against any of her citizens would be counted as an act of overt hostility that would draw the attention of Milan – which in tern would inevitably bring Venice into the fray. Tensions had existed between the two principalities for some time, and the whole region could not afford open hostility between the two. Though Count Paris had acted as an aggressor here in Verona, both Milan and Venice could regard it as purely internecine conflict within the Escalus family – to be observed and noted, but not requiring interference upon either side. 

But Count Paris was a significant member of the Mantuan nobility, and overt hostilities against he and his allies on his own territory would bring grave repercussions.

“I will go,” whispered Tybalt. “We may not declare outright war against Mantua – but alone I have a good chance of slipping in and out unnoticed and freeing Romeo.”

“Not alone,” said Mercutio as he stood up. “Where you go, I go.”

“And me,” added Benvolio as he straightened. 

Mercutio laughed. “What are we, the three Musketeers?”

Tybalt's lip curled derisively, but he held his tongue. Much though he may dislike Romeo's cousin and still hold him accountable for his own treatment at Montague hands, he could not deny the man had as much a right to come with them as he did – possibly more, for Tybalt was bound by a promise to Juliet but Benvolio was bound by blood.

Tybalt stared at Benvolio then slowly nodded. 

“Very well, it's decided,” said Escalus as he rose to his feet. “You will be provided with whatever weapons and equipment you require. It is late; I suggest you get some sleep, gentlemen, then reconvene here tomorrow at ten with your lists of requirements. Whatever you ask, you will be given, to the best of Verona's abilities.”

“We should go now!” argued Tybalt, but Mercutio laid a hand gently on his arm. Tybalt winced involuntarily as Mercutio's hand brushed the cut. He knew Mercutio had observed his reaction as the red-haired man nodded slowly.

“I know how you feel, and believe me I want no more delays than you do. But it will be dawn in three hours, and your arm needs treatment. Let the medics dress it, then let's try to get some sleep. We'll be the better for the rest, and a few hours won't make much difference to Romeo right now.”

Tybalt glared at him and wanted to argue, but he could feel the truth in Mercutio's words. He still felt wired, though the surge of adrenaline was beginning to drain from his body, leaving in its wake a bone-deep exhaustion, and he knew the Prince's nephew was right. Slowly he nodded.

Mercutio slung an arm around Tybalt's shoulders; Tybalt resisted the urge to shrug him off. He could feel the after-effects of the adrenaline starting to kick in as his body reacted to the stress hormones that had raced through his bloodstream, and he wanted nothing more than to be left alone for a while to gather his thoughts and his composure. He still felt the need to lash out at something or someone, and he didn't want that person to be Mercutio.

But he knew he meant well and was only concerned for Tybalt. So he tolerated the arm, and forced down the faint tremor he could feel beginning now the initial urgency of battle was over. He felt like he had been living on his nerves for too long.

Mercutio seemed to sense he was in no mood for conversation; at any rate, he remained silent as they made their way back towards the guest quarters. As they drew level with Tybalt's room, Tybalt halted and Mercutio's arm fell away from Tybalt's shoulders as he glanced down to his own suite then back to Tybalt.

“Do you need to be alone?” Mercutio asked quietly. Tybalt rested a hand against his door and glanced at him.

“I do, but....” Tybalt sighed and shook his head. “I probably should not be,” he confessed quietly. “Stay?”

“Of course I will,” said Mercutio gently.

They both looked up as the door to Juliet's suite opened and she glanced out. “Tybalt?” she said quietly, then came swiftly towards them. Her hair was damp and she was clad in a soft white bathrobe, barefoot. She held her hand out to Tybalt and he took it as he stared down at her.

“I can't bear to stay alone in there without Romeo,” she said in a small voice. “Wherever I look there's memories of him, and I.... please, could I....”

“Of course,” whispered Tybalt. “Fetch what you need.”

She nodded as she pulled away, shortly returning with an armful of things. He pushed the door open for her, and then he and Mercutio entered behind her.

Tybalt stripped off his leather coat as he strode across the sitting room, draping it across the back of the sofa before tugging at the buttons of his shirt en route towards the bathroom as Juliet made her way towards the bedroom. He heard Mercutio come to a halt in indecision, then footsteps behind him as Mercutio followed him towards the bathroom as Tybalt flipped the light on.

“Do you want a hand with dressing your arm?” he asked.

“If you like,” murmured Tybalt between gritted teeth. He was well into the adrenaline come-down now, and it was taking a significant effort of will not to give in to the violent tremors that threatened to overwhelm him any minute. He stripped off the shirt as Mercutio rooted around in the medicine cabinet for the first aid kit. Tybalt kicked off his shoes then peeled off his trousers and left them where they fell as he crossed to the shower and stepped in as he was, turning it on full blast and dialling the heat up as high as he could bear as the first shudder racked his body. He gripped the hand rail and gritted his teeth as his body shook.

“Tybalt? Bloody hell!” He heard Mercutio drop the kit onto the counter by the washbasin and the sound of his leather jacket hitting the floor as he kicked off his shoes, and then he was there with his arms around Tybalt, ignoring the hot water as it soaked through his t-shirt and jeans in seconds. “Hang on, let's get you out -”

“No,” Tybalt managed between gritted teeth as his body shook. “Just reaction. Adrenaline. Be OK in a minute.” 

“If you're sure,” said Mercutio dubiously. He kept his arms around Tybalt.

Tybalt would not have admitted it, but he drew a certain comfort from Mercutio's arms around him as he tilted his head back and let the hot water course over his face. As the tremors gradually lessened and left his body, he managed to reach up and fumble the hair tie out of his hair, shaking the wet locks loose.

“You OK now?” asked Mercutio quietly; he nodded as he stepped out of Mercutio's embrace and braced himself against the wall, his limbs warmed by the almost-scalding water.

He heard Mercutio tugging at damp fabric behind him, and then the wet slap of sodden clothed hitting the bathroom floor. “May as well join you properly,” mused Mercutio as he finished undressing, then tugged at Tybalt's underpants. “You're overdressed.”

Tybalt smiled briefly as Mercutio divested him of the offending garment then slowly turned to face him as he tossed his wet hair back over his shoulders. “What do you think you're doing, Escalus?” he whispered.

“Taking a shower,” replied Mercutio with a grin as he reached for the shower gel. “What does it look like?”

Tybalt shook his head and sighed.

When they emerged a short while later (“ _Far_ too short,” complained Mercutio), towelling their hair off and wrapped in soft white towels, Tybalt's arm now dressed with a clean white bandage, they found Juliet had gotten herself ready for bed and was sitting in Tybalt's bed wearing one of Mercutio's t-shirts.

“Damn, you look better in that than I do,” said Mercutio admiringly. 

“Behave, Mercutio,” she replied absently. She didn't look up from her tablet as she scrolled through something on the screen.

“Oh now this is not fair,” groused Mercutio. “Must I always be suspected of ulterior motives when I simply compliment a lady on her appearance?”

“Yes,” replied Tybalt tersely as he stepped into the walk-in wardrobe, appearing a moment later in clean under pants as he towelled his hair off. He made his way to the bed and reached for a pillow. “I'll sleep in the chair; Mercutio, you can have the sofa.”

Mercutio groaned good-naturedly and reached for another pillow. Juliet looked up.

“Why are you taking the chair?” she asked, nonplussed. “The bed's more than big enough for three.”

Tybalt stood still and stared at her. Was she serious? From the small, hopeful grin on Mercutio's face it seemed he, at least, thought she was.

“You're married,” Tybalt finally managed.

“So?” replied Juliet. “We've shared a bed often enough before.” Tybalt was aware of Mercutio's eyes on him but chose to ignore him.

“Yes, when we were children,” he replied quietly.

“Oh you silly thing,” she chided him softly. “Nothing's going to happen – and anyway, we're all adults. If it makes you happier you can lie in the middle. I just don't want to sleep alone. You understand, don't you?”

He wanted to say no. He knew he ought to say no. For all she and Romeo had talked about sharing, it felt wrong; she was another man's wife. 

But he could never deny Juliet anything.

He slowly nodded, and the bright smile of delight she gave him almost made up for his misgivings.

Almost.


	55. Chapter 55

He was dreaming; the air of unreality about the whole thing told him that. He was leaning over Tybalt, who was lying on his back, one arm loosely draped around Juliet as she snuggled in against his side and the other resting limply upon his chest. Tybalt's head was tilted back, his lips slightly parted, his eyes closed. He was deeply asleep.

Mercutio knew he was dreaming, because in the dream he was carefully tying a knot in the middle of one of Tybalt's silk scarves and then slowly wrapping it around Tybalt's scarred throat. He crossed the ends of the scarf over at the back of Tybalt's neck, then slowly wrapped them around his hands as he steadily pulled the scarf taut. 

He knew it had to be a dream because he would never hurt Tybalt; he certainly wouldn't be pulling the scarf taut until Tybalt's breathing changed, wheezing as his breathing was impaired. He wouldn't be tying the scarf tightly over the knot. Not enough to really hurt him. Mercutio certainly wouldn't then pull out his penknife and trace it lightly down the side of Tybalt's face, not quite hard enough to cut.

In the dream, he slit his thumb with the blade then smeared blood upon Tybalt's face; three lines upon each cheek, like a cat's whiskers, and then he giggled.

That couldn't be him. Not that high-pitched giggle.

He blinked. The cut upon his thumb stung. Tybalt coughed slightly in his sleep, and Juliet shifted beside him, lifting her head to stare at him. Her eyes flicked to the scarf wrapped tight around Tybalt's throat, the blood upon his face, and then back to Mercutio as she slipped her hand beneath the pillow beneath Tybalt's head.

Mercutio glanced back to the scarf around Tybalt's throat then down to his thumb which throbbed painfully, and with growing horror he realised this was not a dream.

“Valentine.” Juliet's voice was low but steady as she drew her hand out from beneath the pillow clutching a dagger.

“No!” blurted Mercutio as he lifted his hands in the air. “At least – not now. Oh god. Oh god.”

She lowered the dagger as she stared at his face, then glanced back to Tybalt as he choked, struggling to breathe.

“Oh god, oh god,” groaned Mercutio as he leaned over Tybalt to tug the knot loose and pull the scarf away from his throat. Tybalt coughed, his eyelids fluttering briefly as he drew a deeper breath before he sighed softly and became still again.

Juliet carefully laid the dagger down then pulled the scarf from Mercutio's hands to gently wipe away the blood. She caressed Tybalt's cheek as she watched him silently for a few minutes; once she was certain he was sleeping peacefully and was unlikely to awaken, she glanced up at Mercutio and jerked her head in the direction of the door silently as she pulled on her dressing gown, tied the sash then slipped the dagger through the sash as she slipped from the bed. 

Mercutio could only follow her, casting a glance back at the sleeping Tybalt before following Juliet into the other room.

Juliet quietly closed the door behind them then gestured Mercutio towards the nearest chair.

“My cousin loves you. That is the _only_ reason why I'm not yelling for the guards outside to have you dragged kicking and screaming in a straitjacket to the clinic and shot up with every damned tranquiliser and anti-psychotic they have in store here,” she hissed. “So start talking and give me one good reason why I shouldn't just go ahead and do it anyway?”

“I....” Mercutio fell silent. She was right, of course. Valentine was going too far, and it was long beyond the point where he had even the pretence of control. The worst of it was, he was beginning to wonder now just how many other dreams he'd had were actually things he'd done. He had the feeling that what he'd just done to Tybalt was almost innocent by comparison to what he'd dreamed of.

“You should. But if you do that, then I'll be in no fit state to go with him to Mantua. It'll be just him and Benvolio, and what do you think will happen without me there? He hates Benvolio after what happened to you two. Do you honestly think they'd be able to work together? Or that Tybalt could pull this off alone?”

“I think he could,” replied Juliet steadily as she folded her arms and stared at him. “You underestimate my cousin. Have you forgotten he single-handedly took down five men who ambushed him, and he armed only with knives?”

“No, and nor have I forgotten the wounds he sustained in that fight. He still bears the scars, Juliet. I've seen them; I've counted them. He will be up against far more than five men – and remember, Romeo is injured, we don't know how badly. It would be hard enough for two people to get him out. He'll need me, Juliet.” Mercutio stared up at her desperately. “Look, do whatever you want. Call the medics, have me committed – hell, I'll walk right there myself, they can do whatever the hell they need to, to keep Valentine under control – but let it be after we've gotten Romeo back. Please?”

“And what if Valentine comes out whilst you're in Mantua? What then, Mercutio?” she asked him quietly.

“I don't know. God help me, I don't. But Benvolio knows about Valentine, and – and so does Tybalt now.”

“And so do I,” said Juliet quietly. “And whilst Tybalt would be afraid to hurt you whilst defending himself from Valentine, you can be sure _I_ won't be.”

“What are you saying?” asked Mercutio quietly.

“That I'm going with you to Mantua.”

 

 

***

 

“No! Absolutely not!” Tybalt stated flatly as he stared at Juliet.

“You seem to be under the impression I'm giving you any say in the matter,” she replied drily as she picked up the Glock 22 and checked the safety. Though an older gun, it was compact, light and reliable, with the typical stopping power of a .40; Mercutio had to admire the casually familiar way with which she handled it, slamming in a clip before holstering it. He couldn't help but notice that like her cousin, she seemed to favour a small-of-back holster.

She also seemed to favour knives, he noted, as she strapped on a forearm sheathe with three titanium throwing blades to her left arm then tugged the sleeve of her black sweater down to hide it.

Mercutio glanced at Tybalt and reflected they could be brother and sister instead of cousins. Both were dressed in black from head to foot, each arming themselves with a handgun each and several knives. Mercutio knew Tybalt had a set of throwing knives on each forearm and two daggers on his belt; he wondered how many more he possibly had secreted about his person. Mercutio by comparison felt decidedly under-armed with the one knife tucked into his right boot and a pair of Browning semi-autos. Glancing at Benvolio, he wondered if he felt the same way.

“Tybalt, he's my husband. We're going up against our family. I may not have been trained up from childhood to be a walking, talking killing machine, but I think I've proven I can handle myself in a fight.”

Had Mercutio not been watching Tybalt as Juliet spoke, he might have missed the the very small flinch or the brief tightening of his lips at her words. Tybalt may be quite open about what his family had made him, but evidently that didn't mean he had no feelings over the matter. Killing machine he may be – but one with a soul.

“Juliet, they are the ones who made me what I am. I can't allow you to do this. If something were to happen to you....” He crossed the room to take her hands and bow his head, pressing his forehead against hers. “If they were to take you from me... Juliet. Please. I have stood by your funeral bier once and it nearly destroyed me. Do not ask me to face that again. I would sooner die a thousand deaths than that.” His voice was little more than a husky whisper.

“It won't come to that,” she said quietly as she leaned up to kiss him gently upon the lips. “I'll have you, Mercutio and Benvolio there. And if Romeo's badly hurt, you'll need all the hands to get him out that we can muster.” She stared into his eyes. “You have to let me do this. Would you deny me?”

He closed his eyes as a look of pain crossed his face, then slowly he shook his head. “You know that I cannot,” he breathed.

She smiled gently up at him. “We're going to get him out, Tybalt. And if he dies, we will avenge him.”

Tybalt nodded then pulled away from her, running a hand slowly over his face.

Across the room, Benvolio looked up and met Mercutio's glance and shook his head slowly. Mercutio had to admit he agreed with both Benvolio and Tybalt, but he'd already argued with her for three hours that morning until Tybalt had stumbled into the sitting room, bleary-eyed and confused at having woken alone. He and Juliet had been arguing on and off about this ever since. It seemed that Juliet was her cousin's equal in stubbornness however. It would have been amusing watching their battle of wills if the situation had been less serious.

There was a knock at the door; Tybalt and Juliet turned as one to face it as it opened and Prince Escalus entered the room. He took in Juliet's appearance at a glance but said nothing as he turned to Mercutio.

“There's a car waiting outside; two others will follow for back-up. Your car will enter the city; I've arranged accommodation for you – a ground-floor apartment near the east gate with underground parking.” He handed three sets of keys to Mercutio. “The lease is for two weeks; there is a secure line to my personal phone plus you'll have radios with secure two-way with the two units that will wait outside. They will not be able to enter the city but they'll provide back-up as needed once you're outside the city walls.” 

Mercutio nodded. He had no words; anything to say had already been said.

Prince Escalus turned to Tybalt and Juliet. “I have provided credit cards with access to whatever funds you require, in false names. It will take another hour to generate another card and false papers for Juliet.”

Tybalt nodded, not glancing at his cousin as he put an arm around her shoulders.

“Is there anything further you require? Any of you?”

“Do you have a chapel here in the palace?” asked Tybalt quietly. Mercutio shot him a glance, startled, but Prince Escalus merely inclined his head.

“My private chapel. If you come with me, you may have the use of it for an hour.”

“Half an hour is all I require,” answered Tybalt as he stepped away from Juliet; he followed the Prince from the room without glancing at Mercutio, though he must have been aware of his eyes upon him.

Mercutio turned to Juliet. “He never struck me as the religious sort,” he exclaimed quietly as she turned to pick up clips of ammunition and stash them in her pockets.

“He's not – well, not usually,” she replied quietly. “But sometimes – just sometimes – he needs a while alone.” She glanced up at Mercutio, her eyes grave. “Usually if he's going into a situation where he's not sure he'll be able to walk back out again.”

“He's going to make it,” Mercutio blurted out. “We all are.”

Juliet smiled sadly. “Yes. We are. But sometimes Tybalt likes to ask for help. Or forgiveness. I'm never entirely sure which.” She turned away.


	56. Chapter 56

Tybalt bowed his head over the rosary in his hands, absently thumbing each bead as he recited the familiar words in a low murmur. It was comforting, this ritual. He'd begun it the night his father died.

“ _Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus._ ”

The scent of incense was soothing, the chapel silent and otherwise empty save for himself. The Prince had said nothing as he'd unlocked the wooden door and let Tybalt in. Candles were lit on the altar and in sconces around the small chapel, the soft light illuminating the space with their gentle radiance. He'd knelt to genuflect, one hand braced on the rearmost pew, before walking forwards.

“ _Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen._ ”

The wooden floor of the pew where he knelt was hard; his knees ached, yet still he knelt there. He could not have said why he found this ritual so comforting. He had begun to lose his faith long before, finding no solace in scripture or tired old dogma taught by long-dead men who were dust centuries before. It answered no questions. He had questioned whether God truly gave a damn about His creatures; why such suffering existed in the world. ( _Why did Father die?_ ) In time he had come to question if there was even a God at all.

“ _Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen._ ”

And yet still at times he felt the need to find a quiet place, to be still with his thoughts, to hold the simple chain of black beads with the tarnished old cross; to recite the words he'd been taught as a boy until they were engraved upon his heart as surely as the lines upon his hand; as the copperplate script upon a small brass plaque on the coffin of a man who had been buried in his name. One more death to his tally. He had not killed the man himself, yet still a man was dead that he might live.

“ _Our Father, who art in Heaven; hallowed be thy name...._ "

More men would die at his hand. Sometimes he dreamed that he was drowning in blood; it was rising to choke him, and he could do nothing but struggle as it filled his mouth, flooding down his throat, rising to cover his nose; everywhere the sickening coppery tang of it – he was overpowered by the scent of it, gagging on the taste, drowning in it as it rose above his head and his lungs burned. He had dreamed of it earlier, it seemed; unable to breathe, yet unable to wake, light-headed and knowing the lives he had taken had come due.

_“...forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us....”_

Yes. Trespass. Such a kind word. Far kinder than “sin”. That was what they'd changed it to, wasn't it? “Forgive us our sins.” How many had he committed? How many dead at his hands? How many would die until he ran out of luck – a blade in the back, a bullet, however it came. Should he not be dead already? He'd been living on borrowed lives since the moment Romeo's blade touched his throat and opened his veins.

“ _For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, forever and ever, Amen. Hail Mary, full of grace...._ ”

The litany had become meaningless long ago. Now, it was simply a string of syllables that freed his mind to think, to contemplate, to search within.

Romeo had taken his life, and yet he still lived, still breathed. Now Romeo had need of that life, and in an hour or two he would leave this palace, leave Verona – perhaps for the last time. He might bleed his last on some street in Mantua.

He felt no fear at the thought. He'd known a long time ago that one day it would come to this; since the day they'd laid his father to rest in the tomb, he knew that he would not die an old man. His father had lived and died by violence, and by his death condemned his son to the same fate. No wife, no child for Tybalt Capulet; only a lonely death and an early grave.

But perhaps his death would count for something.

“ _O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell, lead all souls to Heaven, especially those who have most need of your mercy._ ”

Yes, he was most in need of mercy.

_***_

Juliet glanced round as he entered the sitting room; Benvolio and Mercutio looked up from where the had their heads bent together, poring over a map of Mantua. Mercutio straightened and took a step towards him as Juliet rose to come and take hold of his hands.

He checked his instinctive desire to turn and walk away; he'd always found it hard to adjust back to being in company after a period of reflection. Ordinarily he would have done it before retiring for the evening, but they didn't have the luxury of another day. Already they'd taken longer than he was comfortable with.

“Are you feeling better now? Did it help?” Juliet asked quietly.

He nodded silently then slung an arm around her shoulders as they turned to the others.

“All ready then?” asked Mercutio. Tybalt nodded; they all glanced around as the Prince entered. He handed an envelope to Juliet who took it and tucked it into the inside pocket of her leather jacket. Mercutio looked as though he were about to come out with some quip; Tybalt merely raised an eyebrow at him, and Mercutio shrugged then gave him a grin. He passed Tybalt his long leather coat; as Tybalt pulled it on, Mercutio reached up to brush some imaginary fluff off the shoulder then tugged at Tybalt's silk scarf, straightening it before lifting his eyes to Tybalt's, who frowned. Perhaps Mercutio was nervous after all.

“When you two love birds have finished?” asked Benvolio.

“Which two?” quipped Mercutio as he stood the other side of Tybalt and slung his arm around Tybalt's shoulders.

Benvolio groaned and shook his head. “This is going to be a long car ride,” he groused.

“The sooner we start, the shorter it'll be,” answered Juliet.

“I wish you all good luck. Once you are inside Mantua you will be on your own. If something goes wrong I will be hard-pressed to aid you without causing a diplomatic incident,” said Prince Escalus.

“Hey, Mercutio's practically a walking diplomatic incident on his own!” pointed out Benvolio.

“Hey!” objected Mercutio.

“I see you've settled your differences then,” whispered Tybalt.

“In a manner of speaking,” replied Mercutio.

“Calling shotgun,” said Benvolio.

“Actually, Benvolio, you will be driving,” replied Prince Escalus. “I have provided a car but to minimise the risk of exposure I am not providing a driver. The apartment will only fit four – and at that, the sleeping arrangements might be... rather intimate.”

“Hey, I like intimate!” grinned Mercutio. Tybalt raised an eyebrow as Benvolio and Juliet sighed.

“Mercutio, no,” they said in unison. Tybalt hid a smirk behind his hair as he bent to pick up his bag, pretending not to see the look of disappointment on Mercutio's face.

“So, who gets shotgun then?” asked Benvolio as they made their way down to the inner courtyard. “I vote Juliet.”

“No, I think Mercutio should get it – he needs the extra legroom,” argued Juliet.

“But there's room in the back for three, surely?” protested Mercutio. “Why does anyone need to ride up front?”

“You have better music taste than Benvolio,” Juliet shot back.

“Ooh, that's cold, Juliet,” replied Benvolio, wincing.

Tybalt quietly ignored the discussion as they made their way down the main staircase towards the entrance hall. It was moderately comforting to hear the three of them bantering light-heartedly over who should get to sit up front. He supposed he ought to be flattered that both Mercutio and Juliet wanted to sit in the back with him. He couldn't pull his mind away from what they were likely going into; he almost envied them for the way they could distract themselves for a brief while over something as trivial as who got to sit up front.

There was a large black estate car waiting them in the courtyard, two other cars standing nearby, with several men in black suits standing around. They had the look typical to security men the world over; heavy-set, their suits suspiciously bulky, their eyes restlessly watching everything and missing nothing. Tybalt knew their type. He nodded to them, and one nodded back – the slow, measured nod of respect accorded from one professional to another.

Prince Escalus handed the car keys to Benvolio.

“I wish you all the best of luck,” he told them. “I wish I could give you more aid, but four alone will not draw attention the way a combat unit would. I have misgivings about letting you go alone, and yet I have no choice. If I could, I would keep Mercutio and Juliet here – but that would be the heart of an old man talking and not the rational mind of a ruler.”

“We'll try not to get killed or start any wars, uncle,” replied Mercutio with an infuriating grin as Benvolio snorted.

“Yeah, don't promise anything, Mercutio,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“Tybalt,” called the Prince as Tybalt slung his bag in the boot of the car; Tybalt turned towards him. “Do try to bring my nephew back in one piece. Strange as it may seem, I am actually fond of him.” The Prince's eyes were on Mercutio as he spoke. He blinked rapidly, and Tybalt thought he saw a suspicious glimmer in the Prince's dark blue eyes. Tybalt straightened then he pressed one hand over his heart as he swept down in a low bow to his Prince. Words seemed inadequate somehow at this moment.

The smile faded from Mercutio's face and he took a step towards Escalus. “Uncle....”

“Go, Mercutio,” said the uncle quietly. “And come back safely. I have already buried one nephew. I do not wish to have to mourn another.” he glanced around at the others, nodded to them, then turned and walked back into the palace.

“Not big on goodbyes, is he?” remarked Benvolio.

“He's afraid they'll be last ones,” replied Mercutio quietly.

Tybalt quietly slipped into the front passenger seat before Juliet and Mercutio could take up their argument once more. He plugged his music pod into the car's stereo system then leaned back in his seat, stretching his long legs out and closing his eyes as the lilting strains of Brahms' second violin concerto began to fill the car.


	57. Chapter 57

Mercutio was about to challenge Juliet to “rock, paper, scissors” in an effort to claim the back seat with Tybalt when the strains of classical music from the car distracted him. He frowned and glanced over at Benvolio, who shook his head and made a “don't look at me” expression.

Mercutio walked around the car and glanced down at the passenger seat and was surprised to see Tybalt already settled there, his head resting against the head rest, his eyes closed.

“Tybalt?” he said incredulously, then tapped on the window. If Tybalt heard him, he gave no sign of it. “I don't believe it!”

Juliet glanced up from where she was stashing her bag in the boot. “What?”

“Tybalt's claimed shotgun!”

Juliet covered her mouth with her hand and giggled. “Well, I guess that solves that question!”

“Oh great,” groused Benvolio. “I'm looking forward to this so much. I can just feel him starting to brood at me already.”

“Oh don't worry about it, Benvolio,” replied Juliet as she moved around the car and opened the rear passenger door behind the driver's seat. “I think you'll find he sleeps most of the way anyway. Besides, he could use the leg room just as much as Mercutio would.”

Mercutio slid into the rear passenger seat directly behind Tybalt. He leaned forward and peered around the seat at Tybalt’s face. If he wasn’t asleep then he was doing a pretty good impression of it. He nudged Tybalt’s shoulder lightly, then a little harder when there was no response. Tybalt’s brow creased briefly into a faint frown before smoothing out again.

Mercutio sat back, feeling more than a little disgruntled. He knew it was ridiculous, but he couldn’t shake the irrational feeling that he was being snubbed somehow.

He sat back and folded his arms, staring grumpily at the back of Tybalt's seat as Juliet slid into the back behind Benvolio's seat. Benvolio was talking to the drivers of the two security cars. Juliet glanced over at Mercutio.

“Why the long face?” she asked.

Mercutio glanced at her, then very pointedly stared at Tybalt's seat. He squelched the impulse to kick Tybalt's seat; really, it was hardly Tybalt's fault if he were so tired he had fallen asleep the moment he sat still for more than a couple of minutes, particularly with the gentle classical music playing. And Mercutio had to admit that whilst it may not have been what he personally would have chosen for a car trip, it was undoubtedly better than whatever Benvolio would have put on. (ABBA's greatest hits no doubt.) And maybe the music might have a soothing influence on them all.

Assuming it didn't send _him_ to sleep too. He'd been looking forward to snuggling up to Tybalt in the back (and yes, maybe doing more than just snuggling; some kissing and maybe some heavy petting too, if he could get away with it – particularly if it wound Benvolio up – and he'd really rather intended to make sure it did, which made this all the more annoying), and he'd kind of hoped Juliet wouldn't have been adverse to joining in as well. However, pretty though Juliet was, and even though she'd expressed interest in getting to know each other (and Romeo hadn't objected either, which was pretty much a green light as far as Mercutio was concerned – not that he'd ever exactly let a wedding ring put him off but this _was_ Romeo's wife he was thinking of and really it was only polite to make sure his best friend wasn't about to go all cuckolded husband on him – even if he weren't here right now, it was the principle of the thing; he may be a shallow cad, but even he had to draw the line somewhere), somehow Mercutio had this feeling that if he tried anything more than friendly conversation then Tybalt probably would somehow sense it and then all hell would break loose.

Or at the very least he'd get banished to the front passenger seat. Which would be pretty bad.

Mercutio sighed. This was promising to be a very boring, very _dull_ road trip – and it hadn't even started yet.

Not that it would be a long trip – after all, Mantua was only about 45 minutes away by car. But unless Mercutio were the one driving (or preferably riding on the Vincent), he found any journey longer than twenty minutes insufferably boring.

As Benvolio climbed into the driver's seat, Mercutio shot him a glance, then glanced at Juliet before staring out the front windscreen. A small smile crept over his face as the car pulled out of the inner courtyard.

As they pulled out into the main street, he couldn't help himself.

“Are we there yet?”

He was answered by groans from Benvolio and Juliet.

 

***

 

By the time the outskirts of Mantua came into view some 40 minutes later, Mercutio had successfully wound up both Benvolio and Juliet to the point that Benvolio was steadily cursing him from the front seat even as he was looking for their turn-off, whilst Juliet had already thrown two books and a pen at him to try and get him to shut up. He'd only finally subsided with a roguish grin when Tybalt said his name in a testy-sounding hoarse whisper.

“Thought you were asleep,” observed Mercutio. 

“Did you.”

“Do you mean to tell me you were awake all along?” he exclaimed, more than a little annoyed.

“I claimed nothing,” replied Tybalt.

Mercutio gave an irritated huff of breath as he sat back. “Well, you certainly gave us the impression you were asleep!” he muttered.

“Mercutio....” said Juliet warningly as she glanced at Tybalt then back at him. Mercutio had no idea what she was trying to caution him of, but he shrugged and glanced out the car window. 

Benvolio was negotiating the turn-off. “Say bye bye to our escort, girls and boys; we're on our own now,” he observed as he glanced in the rear-view mirror briefly before flicking his attention back to the road. He reached forward to switch on the GPS, punching buttons then concentrating on the road as he turned onto one of the side streets.

Tybalt straightened in his seat and leaned forward to turn off the music, tucking his music pod back in his pocket; Benvolio nodded his thanks absently as he craned his neck to look at the buildings they were passing.

“Are we-” began Mercutio without thinking; Tybalt turned in his seat and glared at Mercutio. Mercutio raised his hands then mimed drawing a zipper across his lips with an apologetic look.

“It should be right here,” muttered Benvolio. 

“There,” Tybalt murmured as he gestured to an apartment on the other side of the street. 

Benvolio drove the car down into the underground car park and they got out. Mercutio kept darting glances at Tybalt as he pulled their bags out of the boot. This evidently did not go unnoticed by Tybalt; as Benvolio locked the car, Tybalt dropped into step next to Mercutio as they walked up towards the exit onto the street.

“What is it I've done this time?” he asked quietly. 

“Why need it be anything at all?” asked Mercutio testily. 

Tybalt came to a halt and stared at him as Mercutio slowed, then did likewise. Tybalt stared at him silently, his expression inscrutable, before shaking his head and turning to stride ahead.

Mercutio followed, feeling somehow chastised even though the taciturn Capulet hadn't said a single word. He felt guilty, and he didn't like it. He felt a flare of irrational anger towards Tybalt as he stalked behind him. He could hear Juliet and Benvolio following behind him but didn't bother waiting for them to catch up.

As he emerged onto the street, Tybalt was cautiously glancing up and down the street before unlocking the door of the apartment and pushing the door open. Mercutio followed him in.

Tybalt glanced around the living room area, dropping his bag beside one of the two couches, then wandered over towards the kitchen, sticking his head around the door and glancing around before going back for his bag then heading down the hall that led off from the kitchen and living room. Mercutio followed him wordlessly as Tybalt glanced in at each of the three bedrooms then picked the plainest of the three which had the heaviest curtains. He dropped his back at the foot of the double bed then turned and stopped, staring at Mercutio.

Mercutio dropped his back then folded his arms and stared at Tybalt, jutting his chin out belligerently. Tybalt took in his stance and tilted his head a little to one side.

“Sharing then?” whispered Tybalt, one eyebrow arching.

“Maybe. If you're sure you can stand to be around me,” said Mercutio. He knew he was being brattish, but for some reason he felt by turns angry and guilty, and he didn't much like it.

“Why wouldn't I?” asked Tybalt, a look of mild puzzlement crossing his face.

“You didn't seem to care for my company in the car,” replied Mercutio. “First the chapel, then the car – I might start to get the impression you didn't want me around.”

Tybalt blinked. “You're angry with me over where I chose to sit during a 45-minute _car journey_?” he asked incredulously.

It seemed ridiculous even to Mercutio, but he found he couldn't back down now. His ire was thoroughly aroused; all the frustrations and worries of the past few days coming to a head, and no small amount of guilt over his own part – no, _Valentine_ , it was Valentine's doing, not him (and yet it was, really, wasn't it? Juliet was right, wasn't she? He was Valentine; it was just another part of him, and what that possibly meant scared him, terrified him more than he could even begin to describe) and needing an outlet and damn it, Tybalt was _there_ , and he was angry and scared and guilty and _dammit -_

They fought. Loudly on Mercutio's part, incredulous and hoarse on Tybalt's; Mercutio was aware distantly of Benvolio and Juliet entering, the sounds of bags being dropped, low voices outside the doorway but he didn't care.

He hated the way Tybalt looked – confused, hurt, growing angry himself, pinching the brow of his nose as he attempted to reason with Mercutio – he, who had always been so hot-headed and ready for a fight, and if anything could have shocked Mercutio back into awareness of how irrationally he was acting that should have been it. But Mercutio couldn't stop. It was as though a floodgate had been opened; he was a rollercoaster, careening along an unstable track. Mercutio _knew_ he was being a brat; that was the worst of it. Yet somehow he couldn't stop.

“Enough,” Tybalt finally snapped, at last losing his temper with Mercutio. “I don't know what the matter is with you and frankly right now I do not care. Nor do I care to share a bed with someone who would use me as their verbal punching bag rather than actually tell me what the hell is wrong.”

“Words!” snarled Mercutio. “Why not make it a word and a blow?”

Tybalt recoiled as though he'd been slapped. “No. No, don't go there. Not again.”

Mercutio halted, one hand raised already, and stared at Tybalt. “What do you mean?”

“You don't remember the last time you said those words to me? What followed?” asked Tybalt. He stared at Mercutio, who blinked. He had no idea what Tybalt was referring to.

“I will not fight you, Mercutio,” said Tybalt as he turned away. “Not again. Not like this.” His hand stole to his throat.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” snapped Mercutio as he grasped Tybalt's shoulder and spun him round.

“No, Mercutio, what the hell is wrong with _you_?” cried Tybalt hoarsely as he glared into Mercutio's eyes.

Mercutio opened his mouth to retort hotly, but was silenced as Tybalt abruptly crushed his lips to his, kissing him with a fervent desperation.

He was too surprised to pull away; after the first few stunned seconds, he began to react, his arms reaching around to hold Tybalt closer as he reciprocated the kiss. It was as though Tybalt had thrown a bucket of cold water in his face and dashed him back to his senses – only rather a lot nicer, he reflected.

What the hell _was_ wrong with him? Tybalt hadn't deserved any of that.

Tybalt finally pulled away for breath and stared into his eyes.

“I'm sorry,” breathed Mercutio. “What I said – when did I last say it? Why did it hurt you so much? They were only words -”

“Have you forgotten how those words led to my knife in your chest?” whispered Tybalt huskily. “Do you honestly think I ever want to go through that again?”

Mercutio suddenly remembered; remembered how he'd goaded Tybalt to the point of losing both his temper and his control. He remembered also laying his eyes on Tybalt's throat for the first time afterwards when the bandages came off, and knowing that although Romeo had wielded the knife that caused that wound, it had been his own needling and goading of Tybalt that had led to it.

Hadn't he caused it all? It could all be laid at his own feet. And here he was, repeating the same tired old pattern again.

“Forgive me,” he breathed. Tybalt groaned quietly and let his forehead drop onto Mercutio's shoulder as Mercutio held him close.

“I swear you will be the death of me yet, Mercutio Escalus. Please let it not be today.”


	58. Chapter 58

Tybalt lifted his head slowly, his eyes catching those of Juliet as he glanced over Mercutio's shoulder. Mercutio started kissing gently along the side of his jaw and then, as Tybalt tilted his head to one side, down the side of Tybalt's neck – small, light, contrite kisses. 

Juliet was giving him a sympathetic look; even Benvolio looked embarrassed on his behalf. Juliet glanced at Benvolio then mimed pulling the door closed then made a tiptoeing away motion with her fingers, and Tybalt nodded, grateful for her understanding.

Mercutio made an inquiring noise as he felt Tybalt nod; Tybalt turned his head slightly to gently press a kiss of his own against Mercutio's cheek. “You're forgiven,” he whispered huskily, and Mercutio turned his head with a sad smile.

“I don't deserve to be,” he replied.

“Why must it always come back to fighting, Mercutio?” asked Tybalt with a sigh.

Mercutio pulled away regretfully and ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe we're too alike,” he said slowly. “Too strong-willed, too used to going it alone, too quick to anger or take offence.”

Tybalt opened his mouth to argue then realised what he was doing. “Hmm.” He turned away slowly.

“Am I still sleeping on the floor then?” asked Mercutio a little plaintively. Tybalt glanced back at him. “You said you didn't want to share the bed with me,” explained Mercutio.

“I said I didn't want to share a bed with someone who would verbally abuse me, Mercutio. So long as you manage to avoid that, then I see no reason why we should not share a bed.” He turned back towards Mercutio. “I should not have to ask that... should I?” He hated the way his voice lacked all volume; he sounded weak and defensive even to his own ears, and he could not abide that.

Mercutio stared at the floor. “No, you shouldn't,” he agreed slowly.

Tybalt exhaled slowly through his nose. This was all distracting from the reason they were here. Every moment spent talking about anything other than tracking down where the Capulets had Romeo was a minute more that Romeo was apart from his wife. And yet, he could not leave things with Mercutio up in the air. It endangered their mission as much as it did their relationship.

Relationship.... Tybalt sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and stared into space as he pondered. When did he ever find himself the kind of man for whom a relationship even _could_ happen? He was changing, becoming a very different person than the one he had been two years ago. Once, he would have met every one of Mercutio's insults with more of his own, and he would not have backed down from a fight, no matter the consequences. How did he fall into the role of peacemaker? He stared at his hands, musing.

He felt the edge of the bed dip, and then Mercutio's arm slipped round his waist. “Tybalt?”

He let himself lean in against Mercutio's side and he rested his head on the other man's shoulder. “Only thinking,” he said softly. 

“Anything in particular?” asked Mercutio. His tone was light, but Tybalt could hear the note of worry underlying it.

“Only how strange our lives have become,” answered Tybalt. He straightened. “Come, we have much to do.”

“Wait, there's something I have to do first,” said Mercutio. He rose to his feet and stood before Tybalt, who glanced up at him with a small frown.

“What?” he asked.

“This,” replied Mercutio as he pushed Tybalt back down on the bed and then swiftly straddled him, pinning Tybalt to the bed with his hands gripping Tybalt's shoulders. Tybalt tensed instinctively to throw him off, but Mercutio bent his head and claimed Tybalt's lips with a kiss.

 

***

 

When they emerged from the room some time later, Juliet and Benvolio were sitting across from each other on the two sofas. Juliet was working on something on her tablet, whilst Benvolio had switched on the flatscreen TV and was flicking through music channels with the sound off. They both looked up as he entered the room; behind him he heard Mercutio wander into the kitchen and start poking through the fridge.

“Everything alright now?” asked Juliet; Tybalt nodded silently as he leaned on the back of the sofa to glance down at what she was doing.

“I take it from the state of your hair that he's not sleeping on the sofa tonight after all then?” snorted Benvolio. Tybalt jerked his head up and glared at him then reached up to run a hand through his hair.

“Benvolio!” Juliet scolded as she grabbed a nearby cushion and lobbed it at him. “Behave!” She twisted around in her seat and tugged his arm. “Come on, sit down here,” she ordered him. He gave a long-suffering sigh but walked around the sofa to drop down next to her. She picked her hairbrush up from the coffee table and set to work on his hair.

“Do you usually let your cousin brush your hair for you, Tybalt?” asked Mercutio from the kitchen doorway, a mug of coffee in his hand.

“He should be grateful I'm not braiding daisies into it,” Juliet replied. “Keep still!” she added as Tybalt turned his head to dart a warning glanced at Benvolio.

“Seriously? You braided flowers into his hair?” laughed Benvolio. “I'd pay good money to see pics!”

“There aren't any,” said Tybalt, not without a certain amount of smug satisfaction. He'd made damned sure of that, after all.

“Tybalt's hair used to be much longer,” said Juliet. “Nurse would never let me play with _her_ hair, and it wasn't so much fun doing it to my own hair. Tybalt would sit still for hours for me.”

“And spend even longer trying to get the knots and flowers out afterwards?” guessed Mercutio. Tybalt's long-suffering sigh set them all laughing.

Yes, he had definitely changed. Once, he would have bristled angrily at the thought they were all laughing at him, but now he felt he almost... liked it. It wasn't an unpleasant, derisive laughter; more a sympathetic, friendly laughter in which they were laughing less at _him_ than at the situation the young Tybalt had found himself in – a gawky boy submitting to the less-than-skilled hairdressing attempts of a little girl who wanted to play with his hair.

In truth, it had been some time since last anyone had touched his hair, much less Juliet; he realised wistfully he'd missed it. He closed his eyes as Juliet smoothed his hair gently.

“I swear you must have been a cat in a past life, Tybalt – if Juliet were to scratch behind your ears I bet you'd start purring,” laughed Benvolio.

“Shut up, Benvolio,” replied Tybalt without opening his eyes.

He felt someone push a hot mug of coffee into his hands.

“So, where do we start?” asked Mercutio as Tybalt opened his eyes and glanced at the cup then took a sip of the rich black brew. It wasn't quite as good as the coffee at the palace, but it was better than he'd expected.

Juliet pulled Tybalt's hair back into a ponytail, smoothing in stray strands before fastening it with a tie. She leaned forward and gave him a hug. “Better?” she asked quietly.

“Much,” he murmured. “Thank you.” He sipped his coffee and gestured to Juliet's tablet; she handed it to him wordlessly as Mercutio set mugs of coffee before her and Benvolio; she gave Mercutio a small smile of thanks.

With a few taps on the screen he synced the tablet to the flatscreen TV, switching off the music video that was playing, then he called up a map of Mantua.

“Hey, I was watching that!” exclaimed Benvolio then grinned as Tybalt stared at him blankly. “Only joking, don't mind me.”

“I thought Mercutio was the joker,” remarked Tybalt, deadpan. From the corner of his eye he could see Mercutio trying to work out if that was a compliment or an insult. From the look on Benvolio's face, it seemed he wasn't sure either.

Tybalt called up an overlay app and traced his finger over the map; on the screen, a glowing red dot tracked the path of his finger. Tybalt double-tapped on a specific building and it lit up in a red glow. Swiftly he marked out four other buildings nearby, then steadily he worked over the map until eight other buildings in different parts of the city were likewise illuminated.

Mercutio made his way around the coffee table to sit on the arm of the sofa nearest the screen, next to Benvolio. He leaned forward to study the map. “Capulet holdings?” he guessed.

“Yes,” whispered Tybalt as he glanced down at the tablet screen and called up another overlay. He circled the first group of buildings with a pale blue line. “These are warehouses. This and this -” he tapped two buildings; a pale blue outline flashed around each one. “That's where legitimate trade stock is kept. Computer parts, engineering components, that kind of thing. This one holds contraband – luxury goods mostly, brandy, caviar, things like that.” Another building flashed blue. His finger tapped on another building. “Chilled and frozen foods warehouse.”

“Your uncle has his fingers in a lot of pies,” remarked Mercutio. Tybalt smiled mirthlessly.

“Chilled facilities are useful in a business that generates dead bodies,” he remarked casually.

“And how many did you contribute?” asked Mercutio quietly. Tybalt glanced at him sharply but Mercutio's expression held only open curiosity. Tybalt felt a hand lightly cover his hand on the tablet and he glanced down at Juliet; he hadn't realised how tightly he was gripping the tablet. He drew a slow breath.

“Enough,” he allowed quietly. He loosened his grip on the tablet a little as he glanced down at the screen; he was aware of their eyes on him. 

It wasn't that they knew he was a killer; that wasn't what disquietened him the most. It was that _Juliet_ was there, watching, listening. He'd always kept this part of himself very firmly compartmentalised away from her. The Tybalt she knew was different from Tybalt the Capulet enforcer; the killer. He kept his eyes on the screen as he tapped a finger on a different building. “Car parts, garage and respray facility.” He didn't dare look up at Juliet. He was afraid of what he would see in her eyes.

“What are these over here?” asked Mercutio, circling his hand around a cluster of buildings to the north of the city. Tybalt lifted his glance, not allowing his eyes to make contact with Juliet's.

“Residential buildings. Family residence – both the main house plus the smaller apartment – I stayed there when dealing with business on my uncle's behalf, rather than troubling the staff at the main house. Staff residences for some of my uncle's more trusted and valuable retainers.” He tapped one building that stood by itself to the north-west of the city, away from any other Capulet holdings. “That... that was my father's house.”

He kept his gaze on the map. 

“So... where do you think we should start?” asked Mercutio. “Warehouses?”

“As good a place as any,” shrugged Benvolio.

“Tybalt?” Juliet was looking at him as he stared at the map. He'd not set foot in his father's house since the morning of the funeral, despite all the many times he'd been in Mantua over the past few years since then. 

He realised they were looking at him, expecting him to answer. 

He nodded slowly. “Warehouses first.” 

“How do you want to handle this?” asked Benvolio. “You're the expert here.”

Tybalt dismissed the overlays and map then handed the tablet back to Juliet with a nod of thanks. He checked his watch; it was a little after one. “No point in going there now; it's the middle of the day, and strangers snooping would stand out too much. We should eat, and then I'm going to lie down for a few hours to rest before I go reconnoitre tonight.”

“Alone?” asked Benvolio. He glanced at Mercutio, then back at Tybalt as he downed the rest of his coffee and stood. “Don't you think you should at least take Mercutio or I?”

Tybalt stared down at him nonplussed. “Why? I've done jobs like this a hundred times. I know those warehouses like the back of my hand.”

Mercutio stood. “I'd like to go along too,” he said quietly. “If Romeo's there, don't you think someone else besides you ought to be familiar with the layout?”

Tybalt was about to argue but Mercutio had a point. He paused, regarding Mercutio thoughtfully, then slowly nodded before turning away and heading towards the hall.

“Wait, aren't you going to eat?” asked Juliet as she got to her feet. 

He shook his head. “Not hungry,” he replied quietly as he turned away.


	59. Chapter 59

He'd had a name once.

Somewhere between the pain, the drugs, the dreams and the silence, it had been forgotten. It was never spoken aloud in his presence; the white-coated men and women had never spoken to him directly. He was always “the patient”; sometimes, “the boy”. Maybe they had forgotten his name too, or maybe they had never known it.

It was easy to forget things in the white room. It was a room of forgetting and of being forgotten. He was the only one there, though others came and went from time to time. Mostly he was alone though.

The white room was featureless apart from a small stainless steel toilet in the corner and a wipes dispenser in the wall nearby. There was no bed; the floor was soft and padded, as were the walls. It was always pleasantly warm.

A small slot at the bottom of one of the soft white walls was opened at regular intervals whilst he was awake and food slid in on a tray together with a bottle of water. The food was bland and plain. Mostly he ate it because he was expected to, but sometimes he just took the water and ignored the food. If he ignored more than four trays then they came to look at him. Usually that was enough for him to go back to eating again. 

He knew what would happen if he didn't eat after they visited. He didn't want to experience that again.

After every third meal a woman in white would bring four small white pills in a small paper cup. He would swallow them with the cup of water she brought, and then she would carefully check his mouth to be sure he had actually swallowed them. Then he would sleep. Sometimes there would be a fifth pill, and when he woke up he would have a headache, his mouth parched, and he would feel strangely empty and hungry.

It was never dark in the white room.

Sometimes the slot in the wall would open and instead of food, a folded clean white robe would be pushed through. He knew what that meant. A section of the floor would slide away to reveal the large white tub which would start filling. He liked bath days. They wouldn't let him bathe alone, but the water was always pleasantly warm and the woman would wash his hair.

He liked that. It felt nice. It almost reminded him of something else, someone else who once did that for him – except he couldn't quite remember who. He had the feeling he should remember. It seemed very important.

She would dry his hair with a towel and then she would help him put the clean robe on.

He didn't like to look at his body under the water or as she dressed him. He didn't like to look at the scars. But the woman never seemed to mind.

He had no concept of time. Time was something else forgotten in the white room. Food came at regular intervals; the woman with the pills came after the third meal and before he went to sleep. The routine never changed; even bath times followed the same pattern. 

Then it changed. A different woman appeared to give him his pills, and she didn't check his mouth before taking the empty cups away and leaving him to sleep. It was an odd puzzle, and he fell asleep wondering what it meant. She appeared at the next pill time, and didn't check his mouth that time either.

The third time she came, he kept the pills beneath his tongue and only pretended to swallow them before lying down as he usually did. The woman didn't even look at him as she left the room.

He lay still for a while, then spat out the pills (which were starting to dissolve and tasted bitter). He got up and padded over to the toilet and quietly flushed them away before returning to his usual place to sleep. It was hard to go to sleep that night. 

He woke up with a headache and felt queasy. He didn't want to eat the food that was pushed through the slot, though he drank the water. He picked at the food the next time it was pushed through the slot. He pondered what it meant.

He kept the pills under his tongue the next time the woman came, and as before he spat them out and flushed them down the toilet after she was gone; and then he sat back and pondered for a long time before he finally curled up to sleep.

The headache wasn't as bad when he woke up. And the third time, there was no headache at all.

His thinking was clearer as well. He hadn't realised it before then, but he felt as though he had been sleepwalking and finally had woken up. He felt alert and restless in a way he couldn't ever remember feeling. 

And he knew he didn't want to be in the white room anymore.

The next time the nurse gave him his pills, he feigned swallowing them as before, then lay down, feeling an unfamiliar impatience as she left. He listened carefully and heard no click of the door locking. They were so certain he was docilely tranquilised that they were careless, never dreaming he might try to escape. He wondered how long he had been a prisoner here.

He spat out the pills then, instead of lying down to sleep, he moved silently towards the door and listened. He could hear nothing. He crouched there, silent, counting his heartbeats. 

At three thousand, he pressed lightly at the door, and it silently swung open a little.

He crept to the slit between the edge of the door and the door frame and peered out. There was an empty hallway, dark and silent. He slipped out of the room and closed the door behind him.

Silently he moved on bare feet to the end of the hallway, where it joined another. He glanced up and then down this other hall; it was likewise empty, lit with small globe-shaped lights every few feet and lined in wooden panels.

One direction was as good as another. He turned to his left and began walking.

He wasn't sure where he was. The hallways seemed vaguely familiar; they were all silent and empty. As he made his way down one long corridor lined with tall windows, he realised it was dark outside. It was night. 

From somewhere up ahead he heard low voices approaching. In a sudden panic, he shrank back against a panelled wall, fingers scrabbling across the smooth wooden surface desperately. His fingers brushed across a knot in the wood and there was a soft click – and then he was tumbling backwards into a dark space and the panel in the wood swung smoothly back into place silently.

He froze in the darkness as he heard the voices draw closer. 

“Wait, did you hear something?”

A pause, then - “This old palace is full of strange noises. Come on. We've the west wing to patrol next.” Footsteps, moving away.

Palace. He was in a palace. He knew that must mean something to him; princes lived in palaces, didn't they?

And old palaces often had secret passages, such as this one This felt familiar somehow; again, he had the feeling that he should remember this. Had he been here before? Before the white room and the pills and the forgetting of memory and self?

Yes. He turned and began to make his way silently through the darkness, feeling his way. He knew this. He couldn't quite place his finger on _why_ or _how_ , but somehow he _knew_ this place. He felt his way through the darkness, unafraid of the spiderwebs or the dust, following a path his feet remembered more consciously than his mind, walking on instinct.

He came to a junction there and without hesitation turned to his right, finding his way surely in the dark. This felt _right_. 

His footsteps were sure in the darkness; after the stark white of the room, the dim confines of the passages were soothing to his eyes. It wasn't completely pitch black in here; cracks in the wooden panels let in needle-thin shafts of light, faintly illuminating the path his pale white feet trod. He moved with surety, fragments of memories surfacing slowly through the fog of amnesia. He knew that this passage would lead him upwards towards a place where once he had been safe.

He climbed steps in the darkness, moving swifter now. He knew where he was. This was home, this was familiar, _this_ was safe. He had retreated here before, long ago; he knew this for a certainty even if he couldn't say why.

There was a wooden door at the end of this passage. It was smooth save for a small handle. He listened quietly at the door; hearing nothing, he turned it and pushed his way through. He found himself inside a walk-in wardrobe, and this, too, was familiar even if the clothes hanging here were not. He touched the black shirts that hung here, the pants folded neatly. He fingered a black cashmere sweater; it was soft. He picked it up and rubbed the soft garment against his face and smiled delightedly at how lovely it felt.

Whoever these clothes belonged to, they seemed to be a similar height to him. He tugged at the thin white cotton hospital robe, then swiftly stripped it off and dressed in the cashmere sweater and a pair of black jeans. The jeans were a little baggy on him, but he felt warmer. He wondered who the clothes belonged to.

He held still by the wardrobe door and listened. There was no sound from the room beyond – not even the sound of a sleeper breathing. Cautiously he pushed open the door and stepped out onto thick, plush carpet. He took a couple of steps forward cautiously until his outstretched hand touched the edge of a desk. He felt his way along the desk until his fingers brushed the edge of the base of a lamp and soft light sprang to light, illuminating the room in a warm golden glow. He glanced around, and gave a soft cry.

It was his room. He remembered. He knew this room. He stumbled towards the bed, tracing his shaking thin fingers over the carved dark wood posts of the bed and curling them within the dark red drapes as he pressed his face into the velvet fabric. Then he climbed onto the bed and curled up, dragging a pillow into his arms and burying his face in it as he felt tears prickle his eyes. He drew in a deep breath, and the scent hit him.

_Mercutio._

And Valentine remembered.


	60. Chapter 60

Mercutio had no idea how Tybalt could fall asleep so easily and quickly in the middle of the day. By the time he reached the bedroom, Tybalt was already curled on his side, fast asleep, the curtains drawn. Mercutio had shrugged and stretched out beside Tybalt but sleep was elusive; it seemed he'd barely closed his eyes before Tybalt was quietly shaking him awake.

“Sun's setting. Time to move,” Tybalt whispered. Mercutio nodded as he sat up, blearily rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

Tybalt was checking his weapons over carefully; he glanced over as Mercutio swung his legs out of bed then turned his attention back to the gun in his hand. He racked the slide to chamber a round then checked the safety before holstering it.

“You're expecting trouble?” asked Mercutio. Tybalt grinned briefly.

“I _always_ expect trouble,” he replied quietly.

“You're looking forward to this, aren't you?” Mercutio realised. Tybalt shrugged.

“Perhaps. This _is_ what I was trained to do, after all.”

Benvolio and Juliet were sitting in the living room; they both glanced up as Mercutio and Tybalt emerged from the bedroom. Benvolio got to his feet.

“I'll drive you to the edge of the industrial estate,” he said as he handed Mercutio a radio earpiece and spot mic. “I'll circle around the city a few blocks away; call if you need a fast evac, OK?” For once his face was serious, no trace of his usual humour or joking.

Juliet was helping Tybalt fit his own earpiece. “I'll be on standby back here. I'll monitor police comms. We've got a secure link up; I'm on channel two. I'll be your online intel.”

Mercutio darted her a glance. “You've done this before?” he said, surprised.

Juliet shrugged as Tybalt chuckled wryly. “Not exactly; all Capulets get certain basic training though. For some of us it was a game.” He grinned at Juliet, then turned back to Mercutio. “Your uncle maintains his own standing army but he can hardly be expected to lead them personally. For the noble Houses however, their officers and commanders are invariably their own blood and kin and House Capulet has always believed in leading from the front. We do not ask out people to do anything we would not do ourselves.”

Mercutio nodded slowly. That explained something he'd wondered at on occasion; the Capulet servants all seemed to feel more than ordinary loyalty towards the nephew of Lord Capulet. Indeed, both Peter and Juliet's nurse seemed to feel some affection towards him, though Tybalt appeared oblivious to this. 

Juliet put her arms around Tybalt's neck and kissed him briefly. “Be safe,” she told him quietly; Tybalt merely nodded slightly. 

Benvolio eyed Mercutio with a cheeky grin. “Don't expect a kiss from me,” he warned him. Mercutio mock-dramatically put his hand to his forehead. “Oh, Benvolio, you wound me with your rejection!” he exclaimed!

“Idiot,” Benvolio snorted affectionately.

“Let's get going,” whispered Tybalt tersely.

They were silent in the car. Tybalt seemed disinclined to talk, Benvolio too intent on the road; Mercutio found the silence almost intolerable but now didn't seem the time for idle chitchat. He stared out of the car window, paying attention to their route.

Tybalt directed Benvolio with brief terse commands away from the centre of the city, taking them through quiet back streets towards the industrial estate. He ordered Benvolio to halt near the entrance of the industrial estate. Benvolio called up the GPS with Tybalt's coded overlay of the Capulet properties; Tybalt tapped one of the properties.

“We'll try that one first. If we need an evac, come to this point here.” He tapped a car park marked on the map. “Otherwise we'll call you when we're out of the estate and you can pick us up from here.”

Benvolio nodded. “Good luck,” he called as they exited the vehicle; and then the car pulled away and they were on their own.

Mercutio glanced to Tybalt, who tapped his earpiece. “Juliet?” he whispered.

“ _Right here, boys,_ ” Juliet's voice came clearly through their earpieces. It sounded almost as though Juliet were standing right beside Mercutio. “ _Comms are clear, no sign of activity within four blocks of your location._ ”

Tybalt nodded. “Good. Going in.”

“ _Standing by._ ”

Mercutio followed Tybalt through the gate and then immediately off to the side into the shadow of some bushes. He moved as silently as possible behind the tall Capulet as Tybalt led the way around the perimeter of the estate, circling round towards the first of the buildings he'd indicated to Benvolio.

If Mercutio hadn't had his eyes on Tybalt the entire way he would never have known he was there at all. Tybalt was a silent ghost in the shadows, gliding on noiseless feet from one patch of darkness to another, always just out of reach of the bright lights that cast pools of radiance onto the asphalt outside the warehouses. There were lights on in a couple of buildings; Tybalt gave them a wide berth, keeping to the shelter of the high box hedge that surrounded the estate. Mercutio was aware his own footsteps were not quite as silent, but he kept low and followed Tybalt as quietly as possible, never taking his eyes off him as they made their way further in.

Tybalt halted and signalled with a hand for Mercutio to stay back as they approached one building. Mercutio called up an image of the map in his mind; he was fairly certain they were near the back of one of the contraband warehouses. 

Tybalt made his way to the rear of the building then paused by a fire exit, glancing round briefly before gesturing for Mercutio to join him.

“Fire exits are alarmed. Keep watch.” 

Mercutio glanced around, checking in both directions carefully as Tybalt crouched down by the door. Mercutio wasn't sure what Tybalt was doing, and didn't dare glance around to see, all his senses focused on staying alert to any sign of a security patrol or other risk of discovery.

Tybalt murmured something into his spot mic that Mercutio didn't quite hear, then Juliet's voice came quietly through the earpiece as there was a quiet beep and a click. “ _Security override engaged. Looks like they didn't change the access codes._ ”

Tybalt snorted softly; his only response as he gently pushed the door open. “We're in.”

The warehouse layout was completely unfamiliar to Mercutio, who'd never made much of a habit of visiting warehouses; Tybalt seemed to find his way around with no trouble however. They made a circuit of the outside of the warehouse silently and encountered no sign or sound of any living thing. They steadily worked their way through the whole warehouse including the upper mezzanine floor and offices until Tybalt was satisfied there was no-one there.

“Empty,” he whispered.

They tried two other warehouses with the same results, Mercutio feeling a growing sense of frustration as time crept on. He couldn't understand how Tybalt seemed quiet and unaffected by their failure, until he set a hand on his shoulder briefly as they darted back into cover to avoid a passing security guard between two buildings; Tybalt's muscles were tense and rock-hard.

Tybalt jerked his head towards another warehouse standing a short distance away. “Chilled warehouse,” he whispered.

“If he's in there....” began Mercutio in a low voice.

“Then we get him out. I suspect he won't be, however,” replied Tybalt tersely. “But we may as well check them all.” He turned towards Mercutio. “I don't know what we might expect to find in there. Perhaps nothing. But....”

“But there could be dead bodies,” guessed Mercutio. Tybalt nodded.

“And quite likely the men who put them there.”

Mercutio drew a slow breath. Tybalt had made no secret of how the Capulets dealt with inconvenient people, and it wasn't as though he were a stranger to the sight of dead bodies after the raid on the palace – but unlike Tybalt, he wasn't used to dealing with them on a frequent basis – much less to the point of needing to visit effectively a private morgue. He wasn't sure he'd be able to handle that kind of life. It was unnerving to watch Tybalt as he led them towards the last warehouse and realise that this was the life the dark-haired man had been raised and trained to from boyhood.

There were security guards patrolling outside the warehouse; that alone would have told Mercutio that there was something different about this warehouse even had Tybalt not already warned him. He and Tybalt dropped to their stomachs and crawled forward beneath a hedge to watch the pairs of men patrol.

“No dogs,” Mercutio whispered.

“Mmm,” Tybalt hummed in agreement. “Predictable patrol patterns. They've become slack.” He tapped his earpiece. “Juliet?”

“ _Here._ ” Juliet's voice sounded frighteningly loud in his ear; even though he knew the earpieces were shielded and there was no way the guards outside the warehouse could possibly hear her from across the car park, still Mercutio winced.

“Where's Benvolio?”

The sound of a fingernail tapping on glass. “ _Four blocks away. Do you need evac?_ ”

“No. Tell him to stand by then make his way toward the main gate slowly in fifteen minutes. We may need to leave in a hurry though.”

“ _Understood._ ” 

Mercutio glanced to Tybalt. “Trouble?”

“Here if anywhere,” muttered Tybalt. He glanced at Mercutio. “Ready?”

Mercutio nodded.

Tybalt held a hand up as he watched the pair of security guards turn the corner, then dropped his hand. “Go.”

They sprinted silently across the tarmac and flattened themselves either side of the office door. Tybalt pulled a set of lockpicks from a pocket. “Juliet. Building 12A, office door. Override.”

“ _Done._ ”

Tybalt set to work and the door sprang open silently. Mercutio darted inside, Tybalt pulling the door closed behind him as he followed, then he passed Mercutio and jerked his head at him to follow as he made his way further inside.

The offices were still warm from the heat of the day, but the cold hit them as they slipped into the chilled warehouse.

“I don't like this,” muttered Mercutio as they made their way between the aisles past plastic-shrouded beef and lamb carcasses. “Shouldn't there have been guards posted inside as well?”

Tybalt waved a hand at him with a small hissing sound of annoyance. Evidently he was as bothered as Mercutio was by the lack – and that more than anything else made Mercutio worry more.

He caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye and grabbed at Tybalt, jerking his head in that direction when Tybalt's head whipped round. Tybalt followed his glance then grabbed the front of his shirt and shoved him back behind the nearest shrouded carcass as he himself slipped out of sight. 

Mercutio clutched at the cold hard plastic-wrapped carcass as he ducked behind it, steadying it with his hands so its swinging movement wouldn't give him away, and then he froze. Through the clear plastic he could make out what looked like a faded blue tattoo. His eyes slowly roamed up the forelimb ( _arm! It's a goddamn arm!_ ) until he was staring into the ruined remains of a man's face. Well, half a face, to be more precise.

He closed his eyes and held his breath as his stomach lurched. When Tybalt had said the Capulets used the chilled warehouse to store bodies, it hadn't occurred to him that they might be hung up like sides of beef. He opened his eyes slowly as the sound of footsteps came closer.

He glanced around himself slowly, exhaling as slowly as possible so the fog of his breath wouldn't give him away. He was surrounded by bodies, their features mercifully obscured by the heavy plastic sheeting they were shrouded in. They were hung from large, heavy steel hooks from the rails. Between two of the bodies he could dimly make out Tybalt's shadowy form in the faint light that filtered between the shelves and past the still corpses from the lights far overhead. 

He tried very hard not to think about how many bodies Tybalt might have put into this warehouse over the years. There was much he didn't know about the black sheep of the Capulet family; perhaps that was for the best.

There was a surge of movement from Mercutio's left as the footsteps halted directly in front of where Tybalt stood, and then there was a brief strangled cry that was cut off swiftly before Mercutio heard Tybalt's voice, low and harsh.

“Where is the Montague whelp?”

Mercutio pushed his way out from between the corpses and found Tybalt had a security guard by the neck, a blade pressed against the man's throat. Mercutio stared at the man whose eyes widened as he stared at Mercutio, who reached for his gun and thumbed off the safety as he aimed it at the man's chest.

“I'd answer my friend if I were you,” remarked Mercutio in a low conversational tone. “My friend is an impatient man, and no-one would notice one more corpse here amongst so many.”

The man's eyes flicked to the corpses hanging to either side of the aisle then back to Mercutio as Tybalt pressed the blade harder against the man's throat. As the man swallowed hard, Mercutio smiled coolly and lowered the gun a little until it was aimed directly at the man's groin.

“I'm an impatient man too,” Mercutio continued. “I'll count to five, and then I'm going to blow your dick off.”

“The Gianotti estate!” the man blurted suddenly as he went waxy pale. “They have him there!”

Tybalt stiffened and then his hand abruptly jerked, slashing the man's throat open. Mercutio jumped back in alarm as blood fountained from the severed throat, narrowly avoiding his feet as it spattered onto the concrete floor. The man shuddered and convulsed briefly in Tybalt's arms then went limp, his eyes still wide in shock as they glazed over.

“You didn't have to kill him!” exclaimed Mercutio.

“Stop shrieking or you'll bring more of them,” hissed Tybalt. “Help me get him out of sight.”

Mercutio shuddered but moved to help Tybalt half drag, half carry the dead man's body out of sight behind the hanging chilled corpses.

“Let's get out of here,” muttered Tybalt as he led the way swiftly out of the warehouse.

“You didn't have to do that!” argued Mercutio as they made their way swiftly back towards the gate. “Why did you kill him?”

“He recognised you,” replied Tybalt tersely as he scanned the road for the car. “And he would have told them we were heading for the Gianotti estate.”

“So you had to kill him?” repeated Mercutio, aghast. 

Tybalt turned and glared at him. “Yes.”

“But... I don't understand! Was there no other way?” asked Mercutio desperately. Tybalt sighed as the car appeared around the corner and Benvolio pulled in at the curb; they jogged towards it. Tybalt pulled open the rear passenger seat and slid in; Mercutio climbed in beside him. Benvolio was gunning the engine even as he pulled the door closed behind him.

“Tybalt? Was there no other way?” insisted Mercutio, quieter.

Tybalt sighed and finally glanced back at him, his eyes tired and old.

“I wish there were,” he whispered.


	61. Chapter 61

Tybalt let his eyes fall closed as Benvolio drove them back to the apartment, his head resting against the back of the rear passenger seat. He was aware of Mercutio's eyes upon him; aware, too, of the bloodied knife still clutched in his right hand. He could feel slowly-congealing blood dripping sluggishly onto his hand from the blade and over his fingers as they clenched tight about the hilt.

It was sheer habit that finally drove him to pull a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe down the blade mechanically, his hands finding a sort of comfort in the routine act. He lifted his head and glanced down at the knife as he finished cleaning it, eyeing it carefully to be sure he'd left no small specks of blood that could cause the steel to be rust and become pitted; then he slid it back into his boot before slowly wiping his hands clean.

He felt tired. He'd long ago lost count of how many bodies he'd put into that warehouse; and now he'd left another. What was one more to his tally? He'd spoken only the truth to Mercutio; there was no other way. The man would have raised the alarm, and their job would have become infinitely harder if the Capulets knew Mercutio was in Mantua – much less that he'd been snooping around their own private illicit morgue.

“Tybalt?”

He glanced at Mercutio. “I'll be fine,” he reassured him quietly in answer to the question in his eyes. This was all new and alarming to the Prince's nephew, even if this was what Tybalt had been trained for. He'd never questioned it too closely before, except in relation to Juliet – but Mercutio had never seen this side of him, and Tybalt wasn't too sure he cared for it now any more than Mercutio seemed to.

He leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes once more, still desultorily wiping at his fingers with the dirty cloth. He felt Mercutio tug the cloth from his hands and let it go. A moment later he heard the sound of a packet of wipes being pulled open, and then Mercutio began to carefully and gently clean his hands. Tybalt let him get on with it; it seemed to soothe Mercutio to do this for him, and Tybalt had no real reason to tell him to stop beyond a vague feeling of irritation.

He hadn't been back to his father's estate since the morning of his funeral. He could barely even remember the place; and yet at mention of the name _Gianotti_ he had felt a cold lump settle in the pit of his stomach, sick and chill.

_Gianotti_ had been his name once; before he became a Capulet; two names he had been expected to live up to, even though one was never spoken – either in his presence or out of it. The line of Gianotti ended with him, and he was a Capulet now – in name, if not by birth.

Why on earth would Romeo be held there? He couldn't fathom a reason. He tapped his earpiece. “Juliet?”

She must have heard something in his voice; or perhaps she knew him too well. “ _I've pulled up all the files, schematics and floor plans of the estate, Tybalt. It's all here waiting for you._ ” Her voice was quiet, sympathetic, and comforting. 

“Thank you,” he managed softly with a faint smile.

“We're nearly there,” said Benvolio quietly from the front.

“What time is it?” asked Tybalt. There was a rustle of cloth and leather beside him as Mercutio pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“Uh, 2:37am,” he replied. Tybalt heard a stifled yawn in his voice.

“As late as that?” mused Tybalt quietly. “Took longer than I thought.”

“Well, we _did_ check out five warehouses,” Mercutio pointed out.

Tybalt hummed noncommittally. He knew he would have done it far faster alone – and yet he was somehow glad Mercutio had been with him. He reached out a hand towards Mercutio and felt him take it, giving it a slight squeeze. Mercutio's hand was almost as cold as ice.

Tybalt felt the car slow as Benvolio turned into the street where they were staying. Tybalt opened his eyes and straightened as they pulled into the underground car park. Mercutio let go of his hand only long enough to slip out of the car then turned and held his hand out to Tybalt. Tybalt ignored it as he climbed out, frowning slightly as Mercutio slipped an arm through his. He glanced down at Mercutio's arm linked with his then up at Mercutio, about to object, then kept his silence when he saw the worried look in the depths of Mercutio's pale blue eyes.

Juliet was waiting for them as they returned to the apartment. She rose to her feet as Tybalt paused by the sofa to slowly strip off his long leather coat.

“All the files are up and ready for you,” she said quietly. He nodded thanks. “Tybalt... the comms line was open when... you know....”

Tybalt jerked his head up. He'd been certain he'd closed the link before taking down the guard. He turned and glanced at Mercutio, who looked startled. His blue eyes flicked to Tybalt then away.

“That must have been me,” he said apologetically. “I must have accidentally flicked it on or something.”

Tybalt stared at him. He was lying; Tybalt was certain of it. Was he trying to make him feel better? He glanced back to Juliet.

“You weren't supposed to-”

“Tybalt, I'm not a child,” she said gently. “Did you think I never knew what it was you did for my father? Did you think I would think the less of you if I knew?”

“Yes,” he rasped truthfully.

She smiled at him and took his hands in hers. “Tybalt, I have never thought less of you for what you did. You had no more choice or say in it than I ever did when my mother was matchmaking with Paris for my future. We are both what they have made of us – but we are also so much more, Tybalt. You are so much more than a killer. I would not love you so if that were all there was to you. I can hire a dozen such men any day on the streets of Verona or here in Mantua. But there is only one Tybalt, and he is standing right in front of me.”

Tybalt stared down at her, and then one corner of his mouth quirked up a little in a wry smile. “I tried to keep it from you for so long, and yet you knew. Still... you should not have heard that.”

“Could have been worse; at least she didn't see it,” pointed out Mercutio. “Believe me, I think I could have lived quite happily without seeing that myself.”

“Did you think I'd faint at the sight of blood?” she asked derisively as she turned to Mercutio. “Believe me, women see far more blood than any man. But whilst we're on the subject of what I may or may not have heard - _really_ , Mercutio? 'I'll count to five and then I'll blow your dick off'?” She snorted. “You get squeamish over my cousin shedding a little blood – what do you think _that_ would have looked like?”

“I wouldn't have actually done it!” Mercutio exclaimed.

“And that is the difference between you and I, Mercutio,” whispered Tybalt. “I do not make threats I am not prepared to carry out.”

“Which is why you rarely need make them at all,” said Juliet quietly.

“It worked, didn't it?” said Mercutio.

“And if it hadn't?” asked Tybalt. When Mercutio dropped his gaze to the floor, Tybalt sighed. “No matter. We know now where Romeo is being kept.”

“You should go rest; the files can wait till morning,” Juliet suggested quietly. Tybalt shook his head.

“No, I may as well look at them now,” he replied as he unbuckled his holster and laid it atop his coat before seating himself on the sofa and reaching for the tablet. He knew that keyed up as he was now, even though tired he would not be able to sleep.

He began flicking through the files, syncing the tablet to the flatscreen and flicking maps and schematics up onto the large display. He was aware of Juliet disappearing off to the kitchen, dragging Mercutio with her; Benvolio dropped into the other sofa and stared at the display. Tybalt ignored him as he worked through the files, staring at maps of a house he had once known intimately but now was recalled only dimly, as though from a dream.

There were photos of the house interior; he felt that cold chill returning like a lump of dread in the pit of his stomach as he studied them and realised nothing had been changed since he had called the house his home. He flicked the next set of photos up onto the screen, glancing up to study them. Conservatory, dining hall, library, master bedroom -

He closed his eyes briefly as a half-memory surfaced. His father's room. He shook his head, dismissing it, compartmentalising a flash of emotion and pain so old he barely recognised it any more as he glanced to the next photo. His finger hovered over the display, unable quite to dismiss the image.

They'd not touched his room. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it hadn't been that. He stared at the image, at once familiar and yet also strange, as though he stared at something belonging to a stranger. Which, in a way, he was. Very little remained of the child he had once been. He was Tybalt Capulet. This was not the room of anyone who had lived by that name; this was the room of a young child who had never been touched by fear or grief; a child who was innocent, who had only known love.

His finger flicked across the screen and the photo was gone, to be replaced by a map of the ground floor of the house and grounds. He was aware of Benvolio straightening and staring from the screen back to him, but he ignored him as he called up another app and jotted down notes with graceful gestures of his fingers as they danced over the capacitive touchscreen of the tablet.

Juliet and Mercutio rejoined him, Juliet setting a tray with fresh coffee and slices of pizza on the table before sitting to his left whilst Mercutio sank down into the cushions to his right. Juliet poured a mug of strong black coffee and pressed it into his hand. Mercutio leaned forward to grab a slice of pizza then gestured at the map. 

“So, what's the plan?” he asked before taking a bite.

Tybalt laid down the tablet as he sipped his coffee. “We go in, we grab Romeo, we get out.”

“As simple as that?” asked Mercutio through a mouthful of pizza as Benvolio helped himself to a slice.

“Does it need to be any more complex than that?” asked Benvolio. “We scope the place out, figure out where he's most likely to be held, grab him, then get the hell out.”

“Tybalt?” asked Mercutio.

Tybalt nodded. “As simple as that. I'd say go now but without sleep that would be a foolish idea.”

“Tomorrow night then?” said Benvolio, more a statement than a question. Tybalt nodded again.

“Tomorrow night.”

He had barely touched the coffee beyond a couple of sips; Juliet had insisted he eat at least a couple of slices of pizza before he attempted to sleep again, but they sat heavily in his stomach as he lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Mercutio lay sprawled next to him, snoring faintly, whilst on his other side Juliet was curled up against him, her head nestled against his shoulder. 

He couldn't blame her for not wanting to sleep alone. All being well, by this time tomorrow she should have her husband returned to her however and they should all be on their way back to Verona.

In less than a day he would stand once more in his father's house, a very different man from the child who had left it. He had not thought of the house in years; he had avoided that part of Mantua whenever visiting on business about his uncle's affairs. The administration of the estate had fallen to his aunt to manage, he having been too young to inherit at the time of his father's death. By rights it ought to have come to him along with his father's title upon his eighteenth birthday – and yet he had never questioned that the lands and holdings remained in his aunt's hands. He had supposed he had no need of them – after all, was he not a Capulet? Was not all held to the greater glory and honour of their House? And claiming his estate would have carried him away from Juliet.

And after all, what good would it have done to reclaim the name of Gianotti for himself? Who, after all, was Vitaly Gianotti but yet one more minor noble who had fallen afoul of the Montague dogs and been swept aside with no thought at all for the young boy left behind, not yet even old enough to take up his father's sword? Tybalt was a Capulet by virtue of Vitaly's sister's marriage to that great House. Borrowed glory kept a roof over one's head better than none at all; it kept food on one's plate, even though the taste of it might be like ashes in the mouth of one who was there on sufferance, little better than a beggar and with no real blood-claim to such beneficence at all beyond that of charitable pity.

Could he claim the title now? Perhaps. But his life was in Verona, not Mantua. He had no interest in an estate so far removed from where his heart lay. He may not have been born there, but Verona was his home. The Prince had declared all holdings of the Capulets forfeit to the crown, but that surely only held within Verona itself – certainly they seemed to still enjoy power enough here in Mantua.

No, he cared nothing for the estate. It was an empty shell filled only with ghosts and memories for Tybalt, and he had no time for either.

But the name... the name, now, that was his by right, and perhaps that he might claim.

With such thoughts, Tybalt sank into a restless sleep.


	62. Chapter 62

He'd been dozing for a while; he wasn't sure how long. A thin beam of sunlight through the curtains played over his face; it was warm and pleasant, as was the bed. The light brushed his closed eyes slowly until he had to turn his face away from the brightness, and that brought him slowly to wakefulness.

It took him a few minutes to work out where he was, and then he remembered; remembered the slow awakening out of drugged sleep, the escape, finding his way here to his old room and then the flood of memories and attendant emotion that had exhausted him into sleep.

Now he was awake again, feeling relaxed, refreshed and alert and yet also curious as to what had happened during his incarceration – and more than a little hungry.

He slipped from the bed and walked on silent feet into the sitting room to press his ear against the door to the hall. Hearing nothing, he cautiously tried the handle. 

Locked.

He felt a sense of relief that at least he was unlikely to be disturbed here in his rooms – at least, not until whoever had taken them over returned. And didn't that thought sit uneasily with him – that he should have been so soon forgotten that another now had his room? And shared his bed with his brother, no less!

That hurt. That he should be so easily forgotten by his brother – that his brother should take another to _his_ bed. Had Mercutio really cared so little for him that with him gone, he couldn't wait to move some paramour into his little brother's room? Someone who would give him physical intimacy – and there, right _there_ , on the bed where Valentine had slept since he was old enough to leave the nursery! How could he? How _could_ he??

He knew he must have called for Mercutio. He must have done. Now he knew why Mercutio never came; why he'd been abandoned to the white room with the doctors and their drugs.

He turned away from the door, stifling a sudden sob that threatened to escape his lips with his hand as he blinked away sudden tears. He felt utterly, desperately alone.

He made his way back to the bedroom and pulled the door closed behind him before he allowed himself the luxury of crying where he would not be overheard. He sat on the bed and sobbed, feeling overwrought and helpless. As he sat there, shoulders shaking with each spasming sob, his eyes fell on a laptop sitting closed on the desk.

It wasn't his laptop. His was silver; this was black. 

Sniffling back tears, he scrubbed at his eyes with a hand as he got up and approached the desk, curious in spite of himself.

He slowly opened it, and it instantly came to life. He blinked, staring at the screen, and then his eye was drawn to the date in the top right-hand corner, and he blinked. That couldn't be right. 2028? but no, it had only been three years since the accident, hadn't it?

_Hadn't it???_

He fumbled with the unfamiliar touchscreen; the operating system seemed familiar and yet slightly off – the icons slightly different, menus not quite where he was used to finding them. He managed to open a browser window and searched for a universal clock then reeled as he stared at the date.

“That... that can't be right,” he breathed, unaware he'd spoken aloud. “I'm eighteen... I must be eighteen, I _can't_ be twenty-one -”

Yet there it was. He was missing three years somehow.

His hair fell forward, obscuring his view of the screen; he brushed it back irritated, but then paused as he stared at it, then straightened, still staring at the hair. His hair was loose; the nurses had always left it loose. He was familiar with the feel and the length of it, falling to his waist. But it had been barely to his shoulders when the accident happened. 

He turned slowly towards the cheval mirror in the corner. There had been no mirrors in the white room. He had not seen his own face in three – no, six years, it seemed. There was a cloth draped over the mirror; he tugged it away, and then stepped back to stare at himself.

The piercing bright blue eyes were familiar, though there were faint lines at the outer corner he didn't remember. There were shadows beneath his eyes, and his face was pale – he'd always been on the pale side anyway, but his skin now was almost white, almost translucent. He was thinner, which simply served to accentuate his cheekbones all the more. His face was framed with long silky red hair that fell straight and smooth to his waist. That, more than anything else, told him the computer told the truth. It had indeed been six years.

The borrowed clothes hung loosely upon his spare frame, emphasising how thing he was. He lifted a hand to run it slowly across his ribs through the soft cashmere sweater. His wrist was slender, bird-thin, his fingers long and delicate as he lifted them wonderingly to his face, brushing the very faintest light ginger stubble of a night's rest.

It was no boy that regarded him with those grave eyes from the glass but a grown man; a man who had lost too much time to dreaming.

He abruptly turned away.

He was distracted as his stomach suddenly rumbled loudly. He hadn't eaten since his last meal which must have been several hours ago in the evening. The laptop told him it was 11am. He padded on silent feet into the sitting room and made his way over to the counter in the corner – that at least was unchanged; the kettle, tea-making things, a tin of biscuits. He filled the kettle from the sink in the bathroom then set it to boil. He devoured half a packet of biscuits as he waited. It wouldn't be enough – he'd have to go seek out proper food soon, but it would suffice for now. The biscuits were good. He couldn't remember ever being given biscuits in the white room. Nor tea either. 

He brewed himself a mug of Earl Grey and carried it back into the bedroom along with the tin of biscuits, and settled himself down at the desk in front of the laptop. He sipped slowly at his tea, then called up the browser window again and logged into his email.

It took a long time to load up; when he saw the volume of unread messages, he shook his head slowly. He would never be able to read them all. He began to scroll through the pages of messages in his inbox, eyes scanning subject lines swiftly, flagging some that he wanted to keep. It took him some time; he went to fetch himself more tea twice before he'd finally reached the end of the unread messages. He deleted all but the ones he'd flagged – a couple hundred, amongst all the thousands from mailing lists that once had seemed important, advertising, palace circulars, spam and other unimportant nonsense. It took a couple of minutes for the detritus to purge from his account; he headed into the bathroom to shave and brush his long hair, pulling it back into a ponytail with a spare elastic he found on the shelf above the sink. A couple of long black hairs still clung to it; he pulled them free and stared at them before dropping them into the waste bin.

He made himself more tea and returned to the laptop. He was feeling more himself now the drugs had worn off, he was rested, in familiar surroundings and refreshed with food and tea. His mind felt alert in a way he hadn't felt in a long time; the white room already felt like some nightmarish dream.

He began to work through the emails. Many were from friends, asking where he was. After a while they changed; messages saying how they missed him. They couldn't believe he was gone. Amongst them, long rambling emails from Mercutio, full of grief, self-recrimination, desperate unhappiness and loneliness.

They believed him dead. And Mercutio blamed himself.

The last forty or so emails were all from Mercutio; a sort of diary told to a brother he believed dead.

Valentine had to break off from reading Mercutio's pain when he found he could no longer see the screen clearly. Tears were rolling down his cheeks. Mercutio _hadn't_ forgotten him after all. He'd thought him dead. Valentine hugged himself and cried, feeling an echo of Mercutio's agony through his words to a brother he couldn't let go of. Even though Valentine had been shut away, unable to remember, drugged into stupor – it seemed he had somehow haunted Mercutio nonetheless – a sweet, exquisite torture that the elder brother couldn't give up.

Valentine dashed his tears away and read on.

He felt a cold chill sink into his heart as the later entries spoke of blackouts, a sense that Mercutio were slowly being possessed by Valentine's ghost – that some part of him were becoming Valentine. He read in confusion of Mercutio's growing infatuation with Tybalt Capulet, of all people. Suddenly the black hairs upon the hair tie made sense. These clothes were Tybalt's, this laptop must be his.

He read of the estrangement between them after the ball here in the palace. Mercutio seemed fixated upon the fox mask and the appearance of the apparition of his brother. As Valentine read on, he recognised less and less of this ghostly other-him, a darker presence beginning to show through, and Valentine was disquietened over what this might mean.

Mercutio's love for Tybalt shone through in his words even as he described his confusion and anger over Tybalt's rejection. There was a long break after that email, and then Valentine felt his heart ache for his brother's pain as he read of the duel. He felt empathic relief as he described waking to find Tybalt at his bedside, wounded but alive; and alarm as he read of the attack upon the palace.

When he read of the attack on Tybalt, he had to get up and walk away from the laptop. He paced the room, feeling agitated and worried for his brother. The email was full of self-hatred and recrimination, pleading with Valentine to please tell him _why_ he hated Tybalt so much, what had happened that night, what had Valentine done? 

Valentine knew there were gaps in his memory from his time in the white room but he was certain he could not have done this. He could never be so cruel; he couldn't even bear to eat meat – he had been vegetarian since he was four. And drugged as he had been, he was certain he could not have done anything anyway – certainly not in his near-emaciated state. Tybalt was a powerful man; he would have fought him off easily. Whatever had happened in Mercutio's room, it was none of his doing. And Tybalt must have known this.

He turned and glanced over at the corner. There was a secret door there, that led between his room and Mercutio's. Mercutio had never had cause to use it – Valentine had always come to him, rarely the other way around. Likely his brother had forgotten it even existed over the past six years. Valentine crossed to the door and let himself into the small space between the rooms, and nodded – the cobwebs and dust confirmed no-one had set foot in there in a long time. He tried Mercutio's door, and was relieved when it opened easily.

He made his way into his brother's room and looked around. It was much as he remembered – though as with his own room, the mirror in the corner was covered over. Curious, Valentine walked over to it and tugged the cloth away, then blinked at the shattered mirror. Dark rust-coloured spots were spattered across the surface, dry and dusty. He frowned as he drew a finger over a spot, then pulled the cloth back over the mirror. 

He glanced around the room; apart from the shattered mirror he could see no other sign of what must have happened that night. He was about to leave when something dark just under the end of the bed caught his eye. He crouched down and reached under the bed and touched something soft and furry. He drew it towards himself slowly, then stared down at it. He thought it some stuffed toy at first and wondered how it had gotten there. It seemed strangely flat, as though all the stuffing had been torn out of it, and it was oddly stiff. There was a strange smell to it as well.

Then he realised what it was, and dropped it with a small scream.

He knew what had happened to the cat.


	63. Chapter 63

Mercutio crouched in the bushes, Tybalt to his left and Benvolio to his right. Juliet was waiting with the car and listening in on comms. She'd argued bitterly about that – the first time Mercutio had ever seen the two cousins fight. There's been no shouting or screaming on either part – neither Tybalt nor Juliet raising their voices even once – but that had seemed to make the fight only the more unnerving and almost terrifying to be around.

Juliet had demanded to go in with them; Romeo, after all, was her husband and she had as much right to be there as the rest of them – and more right than Benvolio. For his part Benvolio had indicated he was quite happy to bow out and wait in the car (and after one look at the terrible look in Juliet's eyes, Mercutio had swallowed whatever objections _he_ may have had and was privately glad it was Tybalt who faced her wrath and not he even as he made a mental note to always keep on the right side of Juliet in future; had Romeo any idea what a firebrand he had married? She may look like a fragile, delicate rose – but this flower had a core of steel the equal of her cousin and her thorns were equally as sharp, he feared) but Tybalt had shaken his head.

He would not allow her to put herself in harm's way. He had given his word to Romeo that he would keep his wife safe and he would not be swayed from that. He was disowned and cut off from what family he had had left; Juliet was all he had in the world that he could call family, and he would not risk losing her also.

Benvolio had slipped away into the kitchen, and Mercutio had retreated after him after a few minutes, with an apologetic look in Tybalt's direction that the dark-haired man gave no sign of noticing as he stared down intently into his cousin's eyes, listening to her even as he shook his head, the steely determination in her eyes matched by that in his own.

“Do you think Romeo knows he's married a dragon?” asked Benvolio as he pulled the fridge door open and pulled out a beer and offered it to Mercutio.

“Hush, not so loud!” warned Mercutio, glancing back towards the door before turning back to Benvolio. He stared at the beer then shook his head. “Better not. We'll need our wits about us in there. This isn't like the Capulet ball Benvolio – the worst that could have happened then was getting thrown out when we were caught. This time we could end up dead – or worse.”

Benvolio looked at the bottle in his hand then slowly nodded and put it back. He folded his arms and leaned against the fridge door, regarding Mercutio with open curiosity. “What was he like? In the warehouse, I mean? You've told me before that he's deadly with a knife but I've never seen him in action like that. What was it like?”

Mercutio stared back at Benvolio. Of all the things to talk about, he chose _now_ to ask him about his boyfriend's skills with a knife? Right now Tybalt's casual brutal grace with a blade was the last thing he particularly wanted to think about. “Efficient,” he finally managed.

“Efficient?” snorted Benvolio. “Is that all you can say about it?”

“It's enough, believe me,” shuddered Mercutio. 

“Well, I guess that's reassuring in its way,” shrugged Benvolio.

“How so?” asked Mercutio.

“Well, it proves he never intended to kill you, doesn't it? If he's as efficient and deadly as you say, then there's no way you could have won that fight in the piazza. By rights you shouldn't have survived the first insult you gave him.”

Mercutio nodded slowly. “He never intended to kill me. If Romeo hadn't gotten between us, I'd have had a scar to remember him by and a warning not to cross him, that was all. I knew he never meant to kill me.” He folded his arms and leaned against the door frame. Behind him, he could still hear the murmur of low voices as Tybalt and Juliet still argued. Unlike Romeo he was smart enough not to get in the middle of a fight.

“You should have seen his face when he thought you'd died,” said Benvolio sombrely.

“I've seen it,” replied Mercutio quietly. “He dreams, sometimes, and -” He paused as the voices in the other room fell silent. He and Benvolio exchanged a glance, then emerged into the living room to find Tybalt standing alone, staring out the window at the empty street outside.

“Where's Juliet?” asked Benvolio uneasily.

“My cousin will be staying in the car,” said Tybalt softly. He sounded weary. It suddenly occurred to Mercutio that Tybalt often sounded tired these days. Arguing with his cousin could not have been easy for him; he recalled Tybalt saying often that he could never deny Juliet anything – yet now he had. 

He rested a hand comfortingly on Tybalt's shoulder. “It's for the best,” he said quietly. “She'll understand in time.”

“Perhaps,” answered Tybalt tonelessly. 

Now they crouched in the bushes in the dark as they studied the house. The gardens were overgrown, the sad-looking summerhouse by the water garden dilapidated and on the verge of collapse. The main house itself was shabby and run-down. It was evident that it had been uninhabited and for the most part neglected for a long tome. Only a few lights were on here and there. Mercutio studied it silently and tried to imagine how he would feel were he to come back to the palace after a long absence and find it in a state such as this. He didn't glance at Tybalt however; he knew that his face would be the same customary blank mask he always wore save when alone or around himself or Juliet. Whatever Tybalt's personal feelings on seeing his childhood home reduced to this state, he kept them to himself and didn't let them interfere with the job at hand.

“We should circle around to the rear,” Tybalt whispered softly. “That's where they're most likely keeping him. Most of the bedrooms are there, and the rear garden is surrounded by a high wall – hard to get in or out unseen.”

“How do we get in?” asked Benvolio quietly.

“Follow me,” replied Tybalt tersely. He rose very slightly and made his way on silent feet through the overgrown garden, moving lightly on the balls of his feet as he kept low out of the line of sight of the blank empty windows. Mercutio and Benvolio followed his lead.

They skirted around the edge of the garden until they came to the high wall that enclosed the rear garden. Keeping low, sheltered by the overhanging ivy and other overgrowth, Tybalt began making his way along the wall, one hand reaching out to press against the stones as he parted low branches and pushed aside curtains of ivy and clematis gone wild with the other hand. He seemed to be looking for something. Mercutio scanned his eyes over the old cracked stones of the wall but he had no idea what he was looking for. He could only follow behind Tybalt, keeping as low as possible as he pressed himself against the mossy stones and tried to see what it was that Tybalt was searching for.

Then Tybalt's hand tapped something that resounded dully hollow, the sound muffled by the years of moss and vines. Mercutio pricked his ears as he moved forward to join Tybalt.

“A door?” he whispered. “Forgotten under the overgrowth but you knew it was here.”

“Suspected it,” breathed Tybalt. “Couldn't be certain.” He felt through his pockets.

“Don't tell me you have a key, after all these years?” exclaimed Mercutio in disbelief. Tybalt paused and rolled his eyes at him before producing a roll of lock-picks. 

Mercutio rose a little from his crouch and turned to stare out at the garden, alert for anyone approaching as he heard Tybalt set to work behind him. It was several long, anxious minutes before there was a soft click from the door.

“Remind me to fit a bolt on the bedroom door when we get back,” mused Mercutio as Tybalt carefully oiled the hinges of the old door; he paused and glanced back over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow at Mercutio. “Oh, not that I don't trust you,” Mercutio went on hastily. “But I never realised how woefully insecure locks can be until I saw how easily you bypass them.”

Tybalt's only response was a small grunt, but Mercutio thought perhaps he was quietly pleased by the indirect compliment to his skills. He said nothing however as he tucked the oil and lock-picks away before cautiously easing the door open then gesturing for them to follow as he slipped into the inner garden.

There were no lights inside the high walls; all was pitch black. From the looks of the place Mercutio was fairly certain they'd picked the Gianotti house in some haste – it was highly unlikely they'd have motion detectors set up in the garden, given the untouched state of the wild growth of weeds and over-exuberant roses that sprawled everywhere. Evidently Lady Capulet's brother had been as fond of roses as his sister was. Maybe it was a Gianotti thing rather than a Capulet one, he mused as he disentangled himself from another clawing vine for perhaps the eighth time since they'd entered the garden.

They made their way slowly towards the house, where they could see two lights on. Tybalt halted then sank down into a crouch in the long grass, and Mercutio and Benvolio did likewise as Tybalt tapped his earpiece. “Juliet?”

“ _Here._ ” Juliet's voice was low and terse but without the anger Mercutio had almost expected. It seemed that although she had been roused to anger almost as swiftly as Tybalt himself was prone to, she didn't hold grudges – or perhaps she were too concerned with the whereabouts of her husband.

“Two lights on – master bedroom and downstairs study.”

“ _Just a moment. They still haven't changed access codes. Mother's not normally this sloppy._ ”

Tybalt let it pass, waiting patiently. The sound of fingers tapping keys came clearly across the comms link.

“ _Limited camera feeds inside. I think someone's in the master bedroom but I can't get a feed. Switching to the study._ ” There was a hiss of indrawn breath. “ _Tybalt -_ ”

“We'll get him out, Juliet. Just hold on,” said Tybalt, already up and moving.

“ _Tybalt, be careful – Rosa's with him, but there's something -_ ” Her voice changed. “ _Rosa's heading towards the garden. She's coming your way._ ”

“She's seen us?” asked Mercutio, glancing at Benvolio who was checking his gun.

“ _I don't think so. Tybalt?_ ” Tybalt was already up and moving.

“He's on it,” replied Mercutio as he dove after him. “Stand by.”

A slim figure had ran out into the garden and was heading straight for their location. Even as Benvolio raised his gun to draw a bead on the figure, Tybalt suddenly rose out of the waist-high dry grass and flung himself at the figure, both disappearing into the grass. There was a faint muffled squeak and then silence. Mercutio flung himself through the grass hastily.

Tybalt lay in the grass, one arm pinning Rosaline's arms to her sides whilst his other hand was clamped firmly over her mouth as he whispered urgently and quietly into her ear. As mercutio threw himself down beside them, he saw Rosaline's eyes widen as she stared at him, but she nodded assent to whatever Tybalt had whispered. Satisfied, he lifted his hand away from her mouth as he loosened his grip and helped her to sit up.

“Tybalt, you have to stop them. I never dreamed she'd do that to him – he may be a Montague but Tybalt, what she did was _wrong_! I couldn't stay there – not after that!” whispered Rosaline as she stared into his eyes, her own beginning to fill with tears.

“What did they do to him?” whispered Mercutio.

“Tortured him,” answered Rosaline bitterly, her dark eyes angry, and Mercutio was suddenly reminded that before Juliet, Romeo had loved Rosaline for a while. A puppyish love, to be sure, and Rosaline had grown tired of it soon enough it was true – but as he saw her anger, he guessed that perhaps she had felt something for Romeo after all – enough to be angry at the way her aunt had treated him.

“We're here to get him out,” said Mercutio firmly.

“You mean it? You're going to rescue him?” she breathed, looking from Mercutio to Tybalt, who nodded.

“He's in the library. They've got him tied to the desk. Three guards at all times, though God knows he's in no fit condition to try and escape,” she said in a low, urgent whisper. “They rotate every two hours; the last change was half an hour ago. They'll be bored and restless.”

“Who is in the master bedroom?” asked Tybalt.

“Your aunt,” replied Rosaline darkly. “She's the one who's been torturing him.”

“What did they do to him?” asked Benvolio; she glanced at him. 

“You're his cousin,” she said, recognising him; he nodded. 

“Doesn't matter – all we need to know is how badly injured is he, and how many guards between here and the library,” said Tybalt tersely.

“Two in the study, two in the kitchen. Three more near the front hallway,” replied Rosaline. “Romeo's in a bad way. He's blind in one eye, starved and dehydrated; I'm not sure he'll be able to walk unaided. He's got a gunshot wound to his left shoulder that needs urgent attention. Bruises, burns, things like that.”

Tybalt nodded grimly; Mercutio grasped Benvolio's shoulder and tightened his grip as Benvolio made a hoarse angry sound at the litany of his cousin's injuries.

“We'll get him out,” Mercutio promised him in a low growl.

Tybalt nodded. “Rosa, take the small side door. You remember where it is?” Se nodded hesitantly. “Good. Juliet is waiting in the car. Go and wait with her. Juliet, do you copy?”

“ _I hear you. Standing by,_ ” replied Juliet. Mercutio could tell from the slight tremble in her voice that she was crying; hot anger was in her tone.

“Juliet's here? She's with you?” exclaimed Rosaline in surprise.

“Go join her. We'll be out as swiftly as we can. We'll need to make a quick getaway,” said Tybalt as he pushed her in the direction of the small side gate. “Go!”

Without turning to see if she did as he bade her, he rose and headed towards the rear of the house at a sprint. Mercutio and Benvolio rose and followed him swiftly; the last Mercutio saw of Rosaline was a flash of dark hair as she disappeared into the long grass behind them.


	64. Chapter 64

Tybalt dismissed Rosaline from his thoughts even as he moved – not forgotten, precisely, but awareness of her compartmentalised away from the present concern of getting to the study as swiftly as possible.

As he darted in through the open French window door Rosaline had left ajar in her haste, he was aware of the faint sounds of Mercutio and Benvolio following close behind. He slipped through the sheer voile curtains into the darkened room and glanced around, his eyes adjusting swiftly to the dimness. The drawing room was at once familiar and yet alien; it seemed somehow smaller than he remembered – but then he had not yet been ten when last he stood in this room, and he he was now a tall man. 

He passed swiftly through the room, careful to avoid the furniture, calling up the layout of the house in his mind as he headed for the nearest door. There were two doors leading from this room; this one led to the library, the other into a hallway overlooked by a mezzanine walkway. The study led off from the library, a rear window overlooking the garden. From memory he knew that a large oak desk stood before that window; his father had sat there often to deal with his morning paperwork after breakfast. Tybalt had been forbidden from disturbing his father at work until sent for after his own lessons; he would knock at the door, just once, and wait until the calm voice bade him, “Come.” His small pale hand would reach for the door handle (always so stiff, really it needed both hands to open, but he gripped it firmly and twisted) and his father would glance up at him as it slowly opened – not smiling; his father rarely smiled -

He blinked and frowned, shaking off the ghosts of memory as he slipped into the dusty old library. It would not do to get caught up in old memories and feelings of the past here. Juliet was waiting for her husband and he had promised to bring him back.

He moved on silent feet through the library, eyes and ears focused on any signs of movement. He held still, one hand raised to check Mercutio and Benvolio behind him until he was certain he were the only living thing breathing in the room and he let his hand fall. A slight scuff of a foot on carpet betrayed Benvolio as he halted behind and to the left of Tybalt; Mercutio was completely silent, but Tybalt knew he was only a step behind him to his right as he felt the air stir slightly. He could practically feel Mercutio's eyes upon him but didn't glance back, instead shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet as he moved forward between the aisles of old books, the shelves thick with dust that had lain undisturbed for over a decade. 

The footsteps in the dust covering the carpet showed the house was no longer deserted and that people passed this way frequently, though not to linger. No idle readers these; the path of their feet spoke of purpose. Tybalt followed the tracks of their feet to the door of the study.

Evidently what small guard his aunt had set inside the room was purely to keep an eye on their prisoner – there to prevent an escape,unlikely though that may be from Rosa's description of his injuries – rather than deter a rescue. If the lack of security were anything to judge by, it seemed Lady Capulet had discounted such a possibility entirely. His aunt had indeed grown very sloppy, as Juliet had remarked.

Unless....

Unless this were all a trap, which he couldn't discount. He paused before the door to the study and held still, listening attentively.

He could hear the sound of ragged breathing from the room beyond, and low muttered voices talking. He pressed his ear to the cool smooth wooden door and strained to hear better.

There were two men talking; the guards Rosa had mentioned. They appeared to be discussing in bored tones some football match they'd been watching earlier and the likely outcome. From the tones of their voices he estimated they had their backs to him. 

He tapped his earpiece. “Juliet,” he whispered softly.

“ _Two guards, their backs to the library door. Romeo is tied to the desk in the middle of the room. I can't see his face; it's turned away from me, there's a cloth of some sort over his head._ ”

“Where's the third guard?” 

He heard a background murmur over the comms link and the tap of keys then another murmur. “ _Only two visible on camera. Rosa says the other may have gone to fetch Mother when she left._ ”

He silently cursed to himself. Two men he could deal with, but the last thing he needed was a third unknown, and he preferred to avoid a confrontation with his aunt if he could at all avoid it.

“ _Tybalt?_ ”

“Give me two minutes then cut the power to the house,” he whispered.

“ _Two minutes,_ ” Juliet acknowledged. 

He glanced back at Mercutio and Benvolio as he thumbed off the safety on his gun; they nodded understanding, their own guns at the ready. He nodded at Benvolio. “Romeo,” he mouthed, and Benvolio nodded understanding. He glanced at Mercutio and gestured to the right with his gun; Mercutio nodded. Tybalt drew a deep breath, then kicked open the door and was firing into the back of the guard to the left even as they moved into the room, Mercutio's gun barking twice as the guard to the right went down, Benvolio making straight for the figure tied spread-eagled upon his back across the desk.

The Montague swore as he pulled the cloth away from Romeo's unconscious face and and saw the mess the Capulets had made of his cousin.

“No time for that, get him up off the table,” snapped Tybalt as he bent to check the guards were both dead as Mercutio moved to help Benvolio cut Romeo free. He glanced up as heard voices from the drawing room beyond the library. “Need to move.”

At that moment all the lights went out as the power was cut. “Move,” ordered Tybalt as Benvolio and Mercutio struggled to get the unconscious and uncooperative Romeo up off the desk, his arms slung over their shoulders as they moved towards Tybalt.

“We're trapped,” muttered Benvolio as Tybalt shut the door, shoving a chair back under the door handle.

“No we're not,” replied Tybalt tersely as he made his way across the study unerringly in the darkness. His outstretched fingers found the edge of the fireplace and then swiftly found the small protrusion in the middle of the third carved stone rose from the left he remembered from childhood; his father's words coming back to him. _Always have an escape route – and always know where it is. Never assume you are always safe, even in your own home. Trust no-one. Your life will depend upon this one day._

How true his father's words had been, though Vitaly Gianotti could never have dreamed that day many years ago that the hidden passage he had shown his only son that led from his study into the leafy refuge of the conservatory would one day preserve not only his son's life but that of the son of the man who would slay him not a year after first he had shown it to Tybalt. 

Muffled gunshots rang out behind them and the door splintered under the force of gunfire as Tybalt drew the hidden door closed behind them. Mercutio and Benvolio were ahead further down the passage, doubled over as they dragged Romeo between them. Tybalt crouched by the hidden door and listened as the guards kicked apart the remains of the door and emerged into the study behind them then exclaimed in disbelief.

He didn't think his aunt knew of the secret passage but he couldn't trust to that. The sooner they were out of the house the better. He turned and made his way down the dusty passage as swiftly as he could whilst doubled over. It had seemed much larger and spacious as a boy; it was positively claustrophobic for a grown man however, let alone four in such confined quarters – even if one of them were unconscious – and pitch-black. He knew Mercutio and Benvolio must be feeling their way cautiously, never having been this way before. But then even he had only been down here twice before.

He heard them come to a halt just ahead and guessed they must have reached the end of the passage. 

“Tybalt!” hissed Benvolio. “How do we get out?”

“Reach up above your head. There's a small catch just above the door,” answered Tybalt.

There was a quiet click and then the door swung open, letting in dim light and illuminating their faces as they peered out into the conservatory past the large feathery fronds of some ornamental fern. 

So the house had not been as entirely deserted for over a decade as he had thought. Someone had evidently been taking care of the plants at the very least; someone who had not ventured into the rest of the house perhaps, but sought only to keep the green sanctuary of the conservatory verdant and alive through all these long years. These ferns had not been so large and thriving when last he had crept through this passage way.

As he climbed past the sweet-smelling fronds and straightened, glancing around the large conservatory, he reflected that the space resembled nothing so much as an indoor jungle now. The air was warm and humid, and everywhere he turned he saw a sea of dark green vegetation that swathed the glass windows, obscuring the garden and the rest of the house from view. 

He glanced up through the glass panes overhead between those small spaces left by the canopy of vines and palm trees that had grown rampant in over a decade of abandonment; whoever had cared for the plants had watered them but done nothing to restrain their growth. A few stars were distantly visible in the night sky high overhead.

“Tybalt?” called Mercutio in a low voice. Tybalt glanced over at where he and Benvolio were crouched over Romeo, then crossed over to join them.

“He's in a hell of a state,” said Benvolio as Tybalt crouched down next to him. There was a note of venomous anger in Benvolio's voice as he spoke, and the glance he turned Tybalt's way was none too friendly.

“Ben, peace. Tybalt didn't do this. He's on our side, remember?” reminded Mercutio gently.

“He's a Capulet, isn't he?” retorted Benvolio angrily.

“In name only,” replied Tybalt quietly as he reached out to gently turn Romeo's face towards the moonlight that softly illuminated the quiet room in a silvery dappled light. 

Romeo's face bore the marks of several beatings, his jaw purpled with bruises, cheeks puffy and discoloured. Old dried blood flecked his pale skin. Where his left eye once was, there was a gaping bloody ruin where it had been gouged out. The young Montague man was gaunt and thin, half-starved; his bruised ribs stood out stark in the moonlight, marred with the marks of his torture.

Tybalt pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it over the ruins of Romeo's eye then tugged his silk scarf from his throat and swiftly fashioned it about Romeo's head as a make-shift bandage, holding the handkerchief in place. It was all he could do for the injured man for now, but he did not want Juliet to see what his aunt had done to her husband's eye. Not yet.

“We need to get him out of here,” he said softly. “Come on.”

“Which way?” asked Mercutio.

“Follow me.” He rose to his feet.

He couldn't shake the feeling that this was all too easy. Far too easy.


	65. Chapter 65

He had no idea how long he stood there, frozen to the spot as he stared at the remains of the cat; it was the sound of the hallway door leading into the drawing room of Mercutio's suite that finally stirred him into action. He fled back through the secret door in a panic, pulling the hidden door closed behind him just as the guards entered the bedroom to investigate his scream. He pressed his back against the door and fought to calm his racing heart as he listened to the guards as they moved around the room.

“Someone was in here. Look, what's this?”

“Oh fucking hell. Isn't that the Capulet woman's cat?”

“ _Was_ the Capulet woman's cat. What's left of it.”

“Call the captain. Whoever yelled, they have to be in this wing. Start searching all the guest rooms and suites, starting with the rooms either side.”

“Yes, Lieutenant. You think it might have been the escapee?”

“The cat? Unlikely. It's been dead a while. But he might have been drawn back here. He must be somewhere nearby; he can't have gone far. Double the hall patrols and send search patrols around the outside perimeter.”

That propelled Valentine away from the secret space between the rooms. He quickly yet quietly closed the door behind him then sprinted to the desk; he paused only to close the laptop lid and snatch up the open tin of biscuits that would betray his presence, then fled back into the walk-in closet to the safety of the secret passage beyond. 

Once safely in the comforting dark he curled in upon himself, hugging the tin of biscuits and listening to the sounds of men searching his room. He held still, holding his breath as he heard the closet door open and the sounds of someone poking around in and behind the rails of clothes hanging up. Even after silence once more fell over the room beyond the closet door, he remained huddled in the dark, scarcely daring to breathe, his whole body held tense and alert until finally his cramping muscles forced him to move. He finally cautiously crept closer to the hidden door and peered through a knot in the wood.

The walk-in closet was dark and quiet. Very carefully, Valentine eased the hidden door open and slipped out into the closet. Setting the biscuit tin down silently near the doorway of the passageway, he slipped forward to peer carefully between the louvred slats of the closet door.

The room was empty. The guards had searched the room fairly perfunctorily, it appeared; the laptop remained where he had left it, the lid still closed. He waited silently for some time before finally gathering the nerve to emerge from the closet.

He made his way silently to the door of the bedroom and listened carefully before opening it a crack and peering through. The drawing room was empty, the main door of the suite closed. He let himself into the drawing room and hesitantly approached the main door, listening carefully, tense and nervous. He glanced at the control pad upon the wall beside the door, then swiped a thumb across the touchpad. The screen sprang to life and showed that the hall outside the door was empty. Thus emboldened, he checked the door handle and was relieved to find the door was locked once more. 

Not that that had prevented the guards' entrance of course – naturally the security staff would have overrides for all the door locks - but at least he was assured that no-one else was likely to interrupt or surprise him. He breathed a silent sigh of relief and headed back into the bedroom once more.

He fetched the biscuit tin from the closet. He needed to see if he could find a discreet, unobserved way to the kitchens in search of more food. He had vague half-memories of illicit excursions, raids upon the pantries late at night for midnight feasts shared with his brother. Could he find the way again? Most likely. More and more was coming back to him all the time, with every waking moment. He would have to be cautious however; the last thing he wanted was to be caught and sent back to the white room, and it was obvious his absence had been noted. They were looking for him – but then why wouldn't they? He was, after all, the Prince's younger nephew.

Which in itself raised another question; he now knew Mercutio had not absented himself deliberately – he had been told Valentine was dead. But valentine could not believe he could have been kept a prisoner here in the palace without Prince Escalus' knowledge. Which meant that it was likely Escalus who had told everyone he was dead, for some unknown reason. 

He'd always trusted his uncle. And yet, there had been other odd things over the years – small things, trivial things, entirely innocent when taken at face value, but then regarded again in the light of this – sinister, all very sinister.

Mercutio had always avoided politics as far as possible; he hated it. He'd always been an indifferent student at best; it was always Valentine who had been the one who excelled at their lessons, whilst Mercutio did his best to drive their tutors to distraction. As he opened Tybalt's laptop, his mind was already analysing all he'd knew and taken for granted with a sharp clarity, re-evaluating it, slotting pieces into place as he mentally pictured how Escalus had treated everyone around him as pawns in a particularly Machiavellian game of chess – including his own kin. 

Paris' actions in siding with Lady Capulet now made more sense. Valentine found himself wondering if the Capulets were really the villains of this piece after all. 

He hadn't finished; there were more emailed diary entries from Mercutio. Fetching himself another cup of tea, Valentine set to reading them. It didn't take long; enamoured with Tybalt as Mercutio was, he seemed to have gradually less and less time to write long, rambling missives to a dead brother. Valentine smiled wistfully; though he and Tybalt Capulet were very different in many ways, it seemed Tybalt had come to gradually fill the void in Mercutio's life left by Valentine's absence. Perhaps Valentine should have felt envious and jealous at that, but he couldn't find it in himself to resent the dour Capulet enforcer. He had been as much a pawn of his family as he and Mercutio had been of their own. And now he was free of their machinations, as was Juliet.

As, in his own way, was Valentine, he suddenly realised. He was free, his whereabouts presently unknown to either his uncle or the palace staff, beyond the control of the doctors in white coats. A living ghost haunting the vestiges of his old life, it seemed. 

Mercutio would have found it hilarious. A delicious irony. The more dutiful of the two Escalus nephews, now living within the palace yet outside the confines of its rigid hierarchy and scrutiny. A pawn no longer. He bit down the urge to giggle.

Still, this ghost still had earthly needs; food, first and foremost. Closing the laptop, he rose to his feet and headed back to the closet and the door into the hidden passage beyond.

His feet found their way unerringly, the dimly-lit confines of the passage overlaid with memories of walking this way long ago, guiding his feet. He followed the memories, taking a side passage that dipped down to what appeared to be a hidden space between the ceiling of the rooms below and the floor above – a space barely high enough for him to creep through hunched over. How fortunate he was not claustrophobic; these passages felt safe and familiar however. He had passed this way often in an earlier life. How often in childhood had their nurses called Valentine his brother's little shadow? And now he was one with the shadows, at home there more than perhaps anyone else in the palace. Did anyone but him even know these passages existed? He had never encountered another during all his nocturnal explorations. Perhaps he truly was the only one yet living who knew them. 

Another staircase, narrow, descending down into a false space between two rooms. The air was warmer here; he was next to the kitchen, he knew. He crept silently down until his hand was upon the handle of the secret door that led into the rear of one of the walk-in pantries. Putting his eye to a small peep-hole in the door, his view was obscured by hanging ropes of garlic and drying herbs.  
It was late afternoon, the kitchens busy as they began the preparations for the evening meal. It was warm in the secret room, and he would have some time to wait. He turned and returned the way he had come. He would go in search of food tonight, when all would be quiet and he could help himself undetected.

He returned to the bedroom and after swiftly prowling the suite and assuring himself he was still alone and likely to remain undisturbed, he sat down in front of the laptop once more.

Where was Mercutio now? He scanned the last remaining emails; they were sparse – hastily-typed missives, written from a force of habit as much as anything else, which of itself was unusual for Mercutio who had never been a creature of routines and schedules. How much he must have chafed against the mantle of responsibility being draped about his unwilling shoulders, even with Tybalt there to help ease the burden!

_Mantua. They had gone to Mantua._ His fingers were already skimming across the touchscreen, calling up maps, satellite images, data. Now he was glad he were using Tybalt’s machine and not his own; he was staring at the intelligence Tybalt himself had gathered. 

He could distantly feel himself mentally clicking into a higher gear, thoughts coming as concepts rather than words, fingers flashing swiftly as they danced across the screen, catching floor plans and dragging them up to focus. Almost absently he pulled up a terminal command line, ran a couple of commands then grinned suddenly. Tybalt had left a remote session running between this machine and the tablet he had taken with him. 

Connections run two ways. Tybalt would never have dreamed someone might use that connection to access the machine he were using in Mantua.

Valentine sat back and steepled his fingers together as he pondered what he'd found. The tablet appeared to be in use at the moment; Tybalt, or perhaps someone else, reviewing floor-plans. It looked like they planned to move on the house soon. Wherever Tybalt was, undoubtedly Mercutio could not be far away. But what to do with this knowledge? 

He had a few hours to go until he could raid the kitchen for food, and whatever Tybalt's plans he doubted they would make a move much before the night. With that thought, he moved to the bedroom door, closed it, and set a chair against it with the back wedged under the door handle. It wouldn't stop a determined effort to get in, and would pretty much give away his presence – but if someone tried to force the door open, it would wake him and give him a valuable few seconds in which to flee. With that, he retreated to the bed to sleep once more.

He awoke in darkness. For a little while he was disoriented and confused before he remembered where he was.

Food. He needed food.

The clock beside the bed told him it was a little after two in the morning. He rose, changed into fresh clothing, then retraced his footsteps of earlier back to the kitchen. As he'd anticipated, the late hour meant the kitchens were deserted. He ransacked the walk-in fridge for cold cuts, cheese, more milk for the little refrigerator in his suite; from the pantry he stole apples and bread. He took all he could carry, then fled back to the sanctuary of his rooms; and there he fell to with a will, starving. No fine meal upon silver dishes at his uncle's table had ever tasted as good as that stolen repast. It could only have been made better by the presence of his brother to share his contraband.

He stored the leftovers in the little fridge then returned to the laptop with more tea, replete and sated. He opened the laptop and with a few keystrokes restored his earlier session. 

More commands, and then he had a remote window on screen showing him realtime what was running on Tybalt’s tablet. Someone was using it to override the security systems of a house in the north-east of Mantua; feeds from two of the security cameras were visible on the screen. He sat up straighter when he saw Tybalt quite clearly as he moved through the French windows from the garden, and then his heart leapt as Mercutio followed him.

He reached up as though to touch his brother's image, his fingers hovering just above the glass touchscreen before curling in upon themselves. He let his hand fall back to the keyboard, and then as he saw Tybalt put a hand to the headset he wore, he keyed up the audio feed.

“ _\- tied to the desk in the middle of the room. I can't see his face; it's turned away from me, there's a cloth of some sort over his head._ ” A female voice. He wondered who she was. She seemed to be the one monitoring the house security from Tybalt's tablet.

“ _Where's the third guard?_ ” Tybalt's voice, that one. The camera feed jumped; a study, a man bound to a desk, a cloth over his head, two men standing guard with guns, their stances denoting boredom.

“ _Only two visible on camera. Rosa says the other may have gone to fetch Mother when she left._ ”

The woman again. _Mother?_ Ah, perhaps the woman was Juliet, Tybalt's cousin? Whoever she was, she seemed to know what she was doing.

At Tybalt's order, the power was cut. At the same time, Juliet overrode the camera controls completely and switched them to infrared. Valentine watched the rescue proceed before him in fascination, and then horror as it seemed the three men were trapped with their unconscious rescuee. The figure he'd identified as Tybalt retreated to the vicinity of the fireplace, and seemed to do something before gesturing to the others – and then all three men with their burden appeared to disappear into the fireplace.

Without thinking, Valentine accessed the remote session terminal and started flicking through camera feeds. He could see armed men all through the house, alerted to the presence of intruders but not, as yet, aware of where they had gone to. He flicked through the cameras until he found them again. They were in some sort of conservatory, huddled around the body of the man they'd rescued ( _Romeo Montague_ , his mind remotely identified and recalled – Juliet's husband now); as he watched, Mercutio and – was that Benvolio? The figure seemed vaguely familiar, though the young cousin of Lady Montague's heir had aged a lot in the past six years. They slung the unconscious Romeo between them as Tybalt led them from the conservatory.

And then Valentine realised suddenly that Juliet was aware of his presence.

“ _Guys, we've got a problem. Someone's accessing my video feeds. We're compromised. And... you're about to have company._ ”


	66. Chapter 66

Juliet's voice crackled over the comlink, tight and tense. 

They stared at each other. Mercutio felt his stomach drop; beside him, Benvolio looked as though he were having to swallow down nausea. 

Somehow Tybalt managed to retain his composure perfectly; Juliet may as well have told him the weather report for all the emotion he displayed. “Numbers. Direction.”

The comline crackled and popped as though someone had just plugged in a microphone, and then a different voice came on the line. “ _Three men in the main hall, two on the mezzanine. Four in the reception room directly across the hall from your current position._ ” The voice was slightly husky and soft yet uncannily familiar somehow. Mercutio frowned.

“ _Who is this? This is a secure channel – identify yourself._ ” Juliet's voice was remarkably calm and collected; Mercutio had to admire the way she kept her cool in the face of something as unexpected as this. He had to hand it to the unconscious Romeo – he may have picked a Capulet woman for his wife, but at least he'd picked the sensible one who was good in a crisis. He couldn't imagine feeling half as confident if it had been Rosaline handling comms.

Then again, if Romeo hadn't fallen for Juliet they wouldn't be in this predicament right now. He darted a sidelong glance at the unconscious Romeo slung between himself and Benvolio; from the glance Benvolio gave him, it seemed perhaps Romeo's cousin was having similar thoughts. 

“ _Mr Capulet, you shouldn't have left your laptop with a remote session still running._ ” There was a note of amusement in the voice. Tybalt finally showed a flicker of emotion; a brief flash of irritation, gone as swiftly as it had appeared.

“Who are you?” rasped Tybalt quietly.

“ _Why don't you ask my brother?_ ” the voice replied casually.

The penny dropped. Mercutio felt the blood drain from his face.

_Valentine._

“Not... not possible,” he breathed as he reeled in shock.

“This would be a _really_ bad time for you to wig out, Mercutio,” hissed Benvolio as he struggled to keep both himself and Romeo upright. “Get a grip on yourself!” 

Mercutio swallowed hard. “You can’t be my brother; my brother’s been dead for over six years. Well done on sounding almost exactly like him though, you almost had me fooled! Who’s paying you? Paris?” He felt a surge of burning anger push past the shock. “I'll kill him. And you too, when I get my hands on you. I know exactly where you are – you're in my brother's bedroom, you bastard. You're a dead man.”

Tybalt's eyes widened a little and he darted a piercing glance at Mercutio. _Later_ , he mouthed, and Mercutio groaned inwardly as he belatedly realised he'd neglected to ever tell Tybalt he'd been moved into the room of Mercutio's deceased little brother. Something told him Tybalt wasn't too pleased at that little revelation.

There was a breathless chuckle on the other end of the comlink. “ _I'm already dead, remember? Funny thing that, Mercutio; seems I wasn't as dead as everyone thought. It's not Paris you should take it out on though. Save your anger for our dear uncle._ ” A thread of anger crept through the husky voice on the line. “ _We don't have time for the family reunion just yet though. Trust me when I say you're all in very serious trouble right now._ ”

“Prove you're Val,” said Mercutio. “I have no reason to trust you or believe a word you say.”

There was silence for a moment.

“ _I could read your emails back to you. But then I might have hacked your email account. So.... Rosebud._ ”

Mercutio could feel Tybalt's eyes upon him, but he couldn't answer. It was Val. It really was Val. Somehow, beyond all miracles, his little brother was alive, alive and talking to him. His throat felt tight and there was a tell-tail prickling of his eyes.

“Hey, time for tears later, Mercutio – if it's really Valentine, we'll have plenty of time for tears and hows and whys when we get back to the palace, OK?” Benvolio's voice broke his brief fugue of shock.

“Mercutio?” whispered Tybalt softly. “Benvolio is right. And if... your brother … is correct, we have a very real issue to deal with right now.”

“It's Val alright,” said Mercutio, his voice shaking. “I don't know how, but it's him.” He was trembling; whether in excitement, shock or both, he had no idea.

“Can we trust him?”

He was about to respond that of course they could trust him, it was _Valentine_ \- but then he paused, the look on Tybalt's face bringing him up short. The Valentine of six years ago – him, he would have trusted with his life. But this Valentine was six years older, and he had no way of knowing where he had been and what had happened in that time. Tybalt had left his laptop in his room at the palace, but that was no guarantee that that was where Valentine was now.

His hesitation was enough for Tybalt. “Juliet, kill the remote session.”

“No!” exclaimed Mercutio even as the voice exclaimed “ _Merc-_ ”

There was a click, and then Juliet came back online. “ _Connection terminated, Tybalt._ ”

As Mercutio glared at Tybalt, the raven-haired man shrugged. “If it really was Valentine, he'll be waiting for us back at the palace. We have no way of knowing what side he's on. Maybe ours – or maybe Paris. You have no idea where he's been the past six years. We can't afford to risk it. Our security and safety was compromised by the remote link.” He frowned. “And I am a bloody idiot for not considering that sooner. I locked my rooms before we left but obviously somehow he was able to bypass the lock. Anyone with a high enough security clearance could have gotten into my rooms; it was stupid of me to not lock my laptop. I wasn't thinking.”

“It wasn't necessarily the door lock,” said Mercutio slowly, remembering how as a child Valentine was able to come and go from his rooms with ease almost by magic; the midnight feasts with food that the younger Escalus boy had somehow liberated from the kitchens. “I think Val memorised all the secret passages throughout the palace a long time ago. There isn't anywhere he couldn't get to without being seen if he put his mind to it.”

The expression on Tybalt's face told him they would be having a _very_ long discussion about Valentine when this was all over.

“Guys, can we carry this discussion on elsewhere?” asked Benvolio, darting frequent glances at the door into the hall. They had been speaking in hushed whispers apart from the occasional stifled exclamation, but it only took one guard becoming curious.

“Juliet, can you confirm what Valentine said?” asked Tybalt quietly.

“ _He was right – though the men in the hall are now heading towards the entrance foyer. There's movement on the upper floor._ ” She paused. “ _Picking up heat signatures of two figures on infra-red approaching main staircase._ ”

Mercutio opened his mouth to speak but whatever he was going to say was driven from his mind as Romeo stirred and muttered something. He glanced down at him. “Romeo?” 

“Said, Ben's right,” slurred Romeo, lifting his head with difficulty and squinting at Mercutio from his one good eye. “An'... you talk too much.”

“Love you too, Romeo,” murmured Mercutio with a small smile. 

“Juliet, bring the car round to the main entrance. We're going to have to go through the three guards in the foyer and make a run for it,” decided Tybalt. He glanced at the others. “Benvolio, Mercutio, you concentrate on getting Romeo out.” He pulled out his gun and readied a throwing knife in his right hand.

“ _We'll be in position with the engine running,_ ” replied Juliet. “ _Movement on the stairs behind you._ ”

“Move,” ordered Tybalt.

And they were moving.

Tybalt sprinted ahead towards the foyer; there were two brief cracks of his gun and a muffled cry. Benvolio and Mercutio hefted Romeo between them and ran after; Romeo made some effort to get to his feet but for the most part they were half-carrying, half-dragging him. 

Tybalt reappeared from the foyer, gesturing to them to hurry as they heard footsteps behind them and then shouts as the four guards from the reception room burst out into the main hall, their attention drawn by the brief gunfire.

“Go!” rasped Tybalt as he raised his gun and fired past them, drawing another throwing knife from his wrist sheath and hurling it towards a target with a snap of his wrist; Mercutio didn't bother looking behind as he and Benvolio ran for the front door.

“Stop!” A woman's voice, strong and commanding, rang out from the staircase behind them as they reached the door. “Tybalt! Tybalt, stop!”

Mercutio glanced back as Benvolio kicked the door open.

Tybalt stood in the hall, the bodies of the four guards scattered at his feet, as he stared up at his aunt and Paris. She stared down at him as she hastened down the stairs.

“Tybalt!” she exclaimed again as she hitched up the skirt of her long dark red dress and skirted around the dead bodies, not sparing then a glance as she advanced towards Tybalt. She had eyes only for him as she lifted a hand towards him. He lowered the gun, and then his arm fell to hang by his side.

“Tybalt, come on!” called Mercutio frantically. He could hear the engine of the car at the gates.

“Got to go, got to go!” muttered Benvolio.

“Tybalt,” said Lady Capulet as she dropped her skirt and lifted her hands to cradle Tybalt's face; he seemed somehow transfixed to the spot. “Stay,” she said.

“Tybalt, _now!_ ” cried Mercutio desperately.

Tybalt stirred. He lifted his head slightly, then shook it as though trying to wake from a dream; as he pulled away from his aunt abruptly, he turned to face Mercutio, his face pale and his eyes blank. He nodded to Mercutio.

“Tybalt, look out!” shouted Benvolio suddenly. Mercutio glanced up, beyond the figure of Tybalt, and realised there was a gun in Paris' hand, levelled at Tybalt's back. 

“ _Tybalt!_ ” screamed Mercutio as the gun went off with a sharp crack. 

Tybalt staggered but didn't stop running as he raced towards them, his aunt screaming behind him at Paris to stop. He didn't spare her a backwards glance as he ran towards Mercutio. “Go!” he gasped as he drew level with them.

They fled the house, Romeo stumbling between Mercutio and Benvolio as Tybalt brought up the rear. Rosaline was climbing out of the car and flinging the right rear passenger door open as they approached; Benvolio dove onto the backseat, pulling Romeo after him as Rosaline grabbed Romeo's other arm from Mercutio and pushing him after before turning back towards the house. Mercutio distantly noted that she held Juliet's gun as he slid into the car and turned to pull Tybalt after him. As Tybalt fell into the car, she raised the gun and squeezed off several shots at the figures racing after them.

“Rosaline, get in!” ordered Juliet as she gunned the engine; her cousin hastily slid back into the front passenger seat, the car wheels spinning even before she'd fully shut the door, and then they were pulling out onto the road and Juliet put her foot down on the accelerator and they were away.

“How's Romeo?” she called over her shoulder as she drove, never taking her eyes off the road as the needle crept up the speedometer. 

“I'll live,” Romeo managed. “Oh god I love you Julie.”

“I love you too, darling,” she replied fiercely. “We're going to get you home and everything's going to be fine.”

Mercutio could see Juliet's face in the rear-view mirror; tears were streaming down her face, belying her expression of cold fury. Her green eyes flicked to meet his gaze briefly in the mirror; he dropped his gaze first.

Tybalt leaned against Mercutio, his breathing ragged and hoarse. Mercutio slipped an arm around him. “Where did he get you?” he asked quietly.

Tybalt merely shook his head as he turned to look back over his shoulder through the rear windscreen. “Juliet,” he said warningly, his voice hoarse.

“I see them, Tybalt,” she answered. “Hang on.”

There was little traffic at this early hour of the morning; they effectively had the roads to themselves as they raced through the city. Juliet took them through the heart of Mantua before doubling back then weaving through side streets in an effort to shake their pursuit. Beside her, Rosaline had called up a map of the city and was muttering clear routes to Juliet as her cousin drove with grim determination.

It wasn't until both Juliet and Tybalt were certain they'd lost their tail that they finally made their way back towards the safe house. Juliet pulled in at the kerb outside the apartment and kept the engine idling as Benvolio and Rosaline jumped out. 

“Juliet, when they get back, you climb in the back here with Romeo and let Benvolio drive,” said Tybalt quietly.

“How is he?” she asked, leaning over the back of her seat.

“I've felt better,” slurred Romeo.

“How are you doing?” asked Mercutio softly.

“I'll live,” muttered Tybalt tersely. “I think it clipped a rib, nothing more.”

“You're seeing a medic the moment we get back,” said Mercutio firmly. Tybalt said nothing.

Benvolio and Rosaline were back out in minutes, and Mercutio was glad they'd all packed their gear and left it waiting just in case they had to make a quick getaway. They threw the bags into the boot, then Juliet got into the back with Romeo as Benvolio slid into the driver's seat; he turned to toss a radio to Mercutio as Rosaline climbed into the front next to him. 

“Time to call the cavalry,” said Benvolio as he slammed his foot down on the accelerator. “Tell 'em we're out of here.”

Mercutio nodded, and radioed his uncle's men.

“Gentlemen, let's go home.”


	67. Chapter 67

Tybalt had never been more thankful that the distance from Mantua to Verona was less than an hour by car. He couldn't relax entirely – not even with Mercutio's arm comfortingly around his shoulders and knowing that their car was being flanked by the two Veronese security service cars; there seemed to be no pursuit mounted by the Capulets or their agents from Mantua, but just because he couldn't see them didn't mean they were necessarily out of danger yet.

He shifted slightly then held still as the dull throbbing ache from the bullet wound in his back flared warningly. He had no idea how bad it was really; he'd downplayed it to Mercutio out of habit, but he was aware of a warm wetness soaking through his shirt and into the satin lining of his leather coat. Given how often he seemed to have found himself in the line of fire over the past year or so and his current public role as Mercutio's personal bodyguard, perhaps he ought to have had it lined with kevlar, he reflected. _Hindsight is always 20-20._

Two more unmarked black cars that he was fairly certain were also security service moved in on either side as they entered the outskirts of Verona. 

“Looks like your uncle has laid on a welcoming committee,” Benvolio called over his shoulder.

“Dear Uncle always did like putting on a show,” remarked Mercutio absently as they passed over the river. 

“For who, I wonder?” asked Tybalt quietly. “This isn't for our benefit. This is a message to my aunt and Paris.”

“You think they managed to tail us?” asked Mercutio.

“I would have,” Tybalt shrugged, then winced.

“I saw that,” murmured Mercutio. “You're going straight to the med centre when we get to the palace.”

“It's nothing,” Tybalt said with a half shrug.

“Tybalt -”

Tybalt pulled away from him and gave him a brief, tight smile. “Just tired,” he said as he glanced out of the window.

The Prince himself was waiting in the inner courtyard of the palace, with a med team standing by. He waved them forward as the car rolled to a halt, and they calmly and efficiently extracted Romeo from the car and transferred him to a gurney before hurrying him away into the palace, Juliet trotting alongside, her hand still clutching that of Romeo. Two more medics stepped forward as Tybalt climbed out of the car; he waved them away with a weary glare.

“Tybalt, let them -” began Mercutio quietly; Tybalt shook his head.

“Later. I told you, it's not serious. Your uncle will be expecting our report.”

“Your report can wait until you have rested and refreshed yourselves,” interjected Escalus as he came forward to clap Mercutio heavily upon the shoulder.

“It was a night operation,” nodded Tybalt. “Rest would be appreciated.”

“Go, rest, refresh yourselves,” Escalus inclined his head. “I will await your report tomorrow after breakfast, no later than ten.”

Tybalt bowed stiffly then glanced to Mercutio. “Coming?” he asked quietly.

Mercutio glanced from Tybalt to his uncle; at the Prince's nod, he sketched a perfunctory bow then followed Tybalt as the tall Capulet made his way toward the steps leading into the foyer.

Tybalt was aware of Mercutio's questioning look when he chose to take the lift rather than the stairs to their floor in the guest wing. He managed to muster a reassuring smile. “Just tired,” he repeated. “Too much adrenaline, not enough sleep.” He leaned against the wall of the elevator as it rose slowly.

He must have closed his eyes briefly; he opened them again as he felt Mercutio's arm about his waist. “What-”

“Tybalt, you just nearly fell over – I think we should get you to the med centre, not the bedroom,” said Mercutio uneasily.

“I just need to sleep,” argued Tybalt. His back felt like it was on fire, but he knew there was a first aid kit in his bathroom. He felt exhausted and cold. He blinked then straightened. “Besides, we have the little matter of a certain intruder to deal with, and I dare say you'd prefer to see for yourself if he's really who you think he is,” he added _sotto voce_. He didn't know for certain that there were listening devices and cameras in the elevators, but he preferred to assume there were and act accordingly.

His words had the desired effect; Mercutio was quite effectively distracted towards thoughts of his brother, leaving Tybalt to his own thoughts.

It was a relief to reach his own rooms. He unlocked the door and then gestured to Mercutio to enter ahead of him.

Mercutio needed no invitation; he made straight for the bedroom door as Tybalt closed the door behind them then followed at a slower pace. Mercutio reappeared in the bedroom doorway as Tybalt reached it.

“He's not here,” Mercutio said quietly. “But there's an empty cup on your desk and it's still warm.”

“He won't have gone far,” nodded Tybalt. “Check your rooms; he may have fled there when he heard the door open. I'm going to shower and change.”

“Are you alright?” asked Mercutio quietly. “The truth now.”

“I'm fine,” Tybalt lied. “Go. I'll be here.”

Mercutio nodded uncertainly then headed back towards the hallway.

Tybalt made his way over to the walk-in wardrobe, stripping off his leather coat as he went and letting it fall. He unbuckled the back holster and laid it and his gun on the desk before pulling the black sweater off over his head, gritting his teeth as the motion pulled painfully at the injury. He felt blood running wetly down his back as he let the sweater fall to the floor, and he had to brace himself against the edge of the desk as a wave of dizziness rolled over him.

Maybe he should have gone to the med centre after all.

He held still until the room stopped spinning, then slowly straightened and made his way over towards the closet. He reached for the first black shirt he saw and a clean pair of slacks then paused, feeling a slight chill against his blood-slicked bare skin as a stray breeze breathed across his back. He fingered the soft cotton for a moment, not looking over his shoulder towards the shadowy rear of the closet.

“I know you're there,” he said quietly. “Valentine. Your brother's looking for you.”

There was silence.

“Suit yourself,” said Tybalt as he shrugged; he bit his lip as he felt another wave of dizziness roll over him. He clutched the clothes rail and closed his eyes, waiting for it to pass.

Was that movement behind him? He turned his head slowly, cautiously; but nothing moved in the shadows. He stared for a few minutes, listening; but the only sound was his own ragged breathing and the thunder of his own heartbeat in his ears.

He drew a deep breath and turned away.

In the harsh, over-bright light of the bathroom, he was able to better see the gunshot wound in his back in the full-length mirror. It was a bloodied mess, about two inches below his right shoulderblade, perhaps five inches to the right of his spine, just where the ribs curves around his side; a long messy gouge through his flesh where the bullet had ricocheted off the rib and plouged through the skin. He could feel something grating beneath the muscle as he probed; he felt a rush of nausea as the pain intensified, and he let his hand drop. Evidently the bullet had chipped the rib; likely fractured it. A little higher and it would have passed between his ribs and he'd likely not still be breathing. As it was, the wound was messy but not as bad as it undoubtedly looked.

He reached for the cabinet.

The tiled floor rushed up to hit his face. 

_Mercutio was right,_ he thought dazedly as the room spun. He should have gone to the med centre.

This was ridiculous. The wound was not that bad. He'd lost more blood than this the night of the warehouse ambush.

“Lie still.” The voice was soft, slightly husky – as though from long disuse. Tybalt blinked as a pair of bare feet appeared in his field of vision.

“So you decided to come out of the closet at last,” Tybalt managed to rasp as the feet shifted and then he felt a cold hand rest lightly on his shoulder.

“You are hurt. And you already knew I was there.”

“Yes,” replied Tybalt simply. The hand shifted slightly, ghosting across his back but not touching the wound.

“Stay there.”

“I hadn't planned on moving,” replied Tybalt drily. The husky voice chuckled. 

Tybalt heard the bathroom cabinet door click, and something plastic being pulled out, then the other person knelt on the bathroom tiles next to him.

“Why are you helping me, Valentine?” asked Tybalt.

“Because Mercutio is an ass and should be doing this instead of haring off to look for me,” replied Valentine. “But then again he'll likely panic when he sees all this blood, so it's probably just as well I'm here.”

“And you don't think seeing the brother who is supposed to be dead will throw him into a panic?” replied Tybalt. He felt Valentine's fingers carefully probe around the wound and held his breath against an anticipated flare of pain that didn't come.

“Easy,” said Valentine gently. “I'll try not to hurt you. I just need to clean around the wound before I put a dressing on it. You've bled quite a bit but I don't think it's serious. Likely just exhausted on top of blood loss.”

Tybalt knew he ought to be feeling alarm at being so vulnerable and weak, at the mercy of an intruder. All he could feel was a dull pang of concern however. He must be more tired than he had thought.

Tybalt lay still, his cheek pressed against the cool tile of the bathroom floor as Valentine gently cleaned his back then began dressing his wound. He felt the floor vibrate slightly as feet pounded towards the bathroom. “Mercutio,” he said quietly just as the door was wrenched open and there was a gasp of sharply-indrawn breath and then a strangled cry.

The hands upon Tybalt's back stilled. There was silence for a few minutes.

“Hello Mercutio,” said Valentine softly, his voice sounding slightly thick and a little choked. 

Tybalt managed to turn his head a little, just in time to see Mercutio fall to his knees before his brother, staring at him wide-eyed in disbelief for a moment before he reached out and hugged Valentine tightly to him. “Val. Oh my god. _Val_.”

They were both crying as Mercutio buried his face against Valentine's hair and Valentine in turn rubbed Mercutio's back soothingly. Tybalt felt acute embarrassment at being a silent witness to their reunion; he turned his face away and closed his eyes. 

After a while, Mercutio's sobs gave way to muffled hiccups. “Val, I – oh god. Tybalt.”

“It's not as bad as it looks,” Tybalt said quietly, not turning his head. “Your brother was doing a reasonable job of patching me up.”

“Only reasonable?” said Valentine huskily; as Tybalt turned his head, the younger Escalus brother smiled at him, his eyes still bright with tears. 

He stared up at the two brothers, so alike; twin pairs of bright blue eyes, one with a wild, unruly mop of short ginger hair, the other with long coppery hair the same shade that fell to his waist. They could have been twins.

He was tired. Too tired to keep his eyes open any longer. It was over; Romeo was safe. They were all safe. He could rest now.

He closed his eyes.


	68. Chapter 68

Valentine sat curled against the headboard of the bed that had once been his, his spine pressed against the upright post, and watched his brother as he paced.

Mercutio’s shock had given way to remorse and self-recriminations that he had tamely accepted the lies their uncle had fed him and not fought harder to see Valentine for himself. The guilt had given way gradually to a fierce cold rage, and now he paced, tightlipped and pale with fury.

A med team had arrived at the door to the suite a short while ago; Mercutio had allowed them in to treat Tybalt but once they had assured him that the unconscious Capulet was in no serious danger and that the wound was moderately minor, he had insisted they treat it there and refused to allow Tybalt to be removed to the med centre. After some argument, Mercutio had pulled rank. The two medics dressed Tybalt’s wound in silence then withdrawn.

Valentine had retreated to the walk-in closet until he was certain that they were alone once more. Tybalt had been laid out upon the bed to sleep off his exhaustion and the drugs the medics had administered; Mercutio was already pacing, muttering angrily to himself. Valentine knew better than to interrupt Mercutio in one of his moods. He had taken up his position upon the bed, on the opposite side to where Tybalt lay supine, and watched silently.

Finally Mercutio’s pace slowed, and Valentine knew from the tone of the fervent muttering that his brother was calming down somewhat. He slipped quietly from the bed and made his way to the lounge. He fixed a pot of coffee then brought Mercutio a mug; pressing it into his brother’s hands, he tugged him slowly over towards the desk, guiding the elder Escalus to the seat then perching himself on the edge. When Mercutio opened his mouth to speak, Valentine fixed him with a frown and pointed a finger at the mug. Mercutio shrugged with a faint, tired smile and sipped his coffee. From the slow grin that spread across his brother’s face, Valentine knew he’d remembered exactly the way Mercutio liked it.

“No-one ever makes coffee quite the way you do, Val,” murmured Mercutio quietly. “I’ve missed it.”

“I know,” said Val simply as he drew his feet up and sat crosslegged on the desk. “I read the emails.”

“You read...? Ah. Then you’re ahead of me,” said Mercutio slowly. “So. Six years.”

“Apparently so.” 

Mercutio looked up at him. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

Valentine twirled a lock of red hair around one finger and hummed soft agreement. He shifted slightly, then sighed. 

It didn’t take long. Valentine’s memories were, after all, very incomplete things; he had only been truly awake and himself for a couple of days. Mercutio sipped his coffee slowly, then set his mug down once Valentine had finished and held one hand out silently to his brother.

How quickly they slipped back into their old, comfortable ways. Valentine slipped down from the table and stepped into the circle of Mercutio’s arm. It felt warm and comforting as Mercutio curled his arm around Valentine’s waist, and Valentine draped an arm around Mercutio’s shoulders then lowered his head to his brother’s shoulder. They remained like that in silence for a while, and neither felt the need to speak. They did not need to articulate aloud how much they had missed each other; the fierce hug Mercutio gave Valentine and the answering squeeze of Valentine’s hand upon Mercutio’s shoulder spoke far more eloquently than words.

Mercutio cleared his throat. “Val -”

“I know. But I’m here now.”

Mercutio drew a deep, ragged breath, and nodded.

“So... you and Tybalt.” He’d meant it to be a question but it came out more of a statement. Mercutio laughed.

“Seems unlikely, doesn’t it?” he said ruefully. “Last person you would have expected.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Valentine slowly as he straightened slightly. “You never liked doing things the easy way.” Mercutio snorted, then sighed.

“Val, I’m not sure where we go from here. It’s only a matter of time before uncle dearest learns you’ve found me.”

“We’ll both be in danger,” replied Valentine. “He doesn’t like things being out of his control. It’s why he had to make me disappear in the first place.”

Mercutio glanced up at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Mercutio, _think_. The accident was the perfect chance for him to make me disappear. He could never get you to do anything - remember? We were wild.”

Mercutio nodded slowly. “You were always the one who kept a cool head. You talked me out of my worst ideas.”

“Oh, I came up with a few of my own,” smiled Valentine. “It was my fault we were on the roof, remember?”

Mercutio’s face fell. “I don’t know how you survived that. It’s a four-storey drop from that roof, and you fell through glass. All that blood -”

Valentine rubbed his arm through the sleeve of the sweater he wore - another of Tybalt’s black cashmere turtlenecks. It was loose on Valentine, but the high neck hid the scars. He smiled at Mercutio wanly. “It was easy for our uncle to persuade you I was dead. I must have looked a nightmare.”

“I still couldn’t believe it. Not entirely,” said Mercutio. “I didn’t _want_ to believe it. I was sure I would have felt something, would have _known_ you were gone.”

Valentine shrugged. “And I was drugged to the gills on painkillers, and later on, whatever tranquilisers they’d given me. I didn’t even remember my own name, much less that I’d had a brother - until I managed to get out.”

“He stole you from me. Six years, Val. I can never forgive him for that,” growled Mercutio.

“What will you do?” asked Valentine quietly.

“I don’t know,” admitted Mercutio.

“We have to get out of here,” rasped Tybalt as he sat up. Mercutio half-rose from his seat and turned towards him, surprised.

“We thought you were sleeping,” he said.

“I was,” answered the dark-haired man as he swung his long legs over the side of the bed carefully then stood up. Valentine pulled himself away from Mercutio as his brother rose to his feet and crossed to Tybalt.

“You shouldn’t be up,” said Mercutio quietly. “You should still be resting.”

Valentine laughed. “When did you become the sensible one?” he asked. He took a step towards them but then paused as Tybalt fixed him with a cool green stare.

“Your brother ran your uncle’s affairs for several weeks following my family’s attack on the palace. Quite capably, for the record.”

“My brother may be hotheaded but he’s not stupid,” shrugged Valentine. “Though our tutors would not have agreed.”

Mercutio snorted. “Yes, and look where it got me - firmly yoked to duty and obligation,” he remarked sourly. 

“As you were born to do,” remarked Tybalt calmly. 

“Yes, yes, rub it in why don’t you,” groused Mercutio. 

Valentine stared at them both; there was a faint smile ghosting upon Tybalt’s lips. He had the distinct impression that there were some shared joke between them, and he felt a brief pang of jealousy. Once, it had been he and Mercutio who excluded others from their own private jokes, but now there was another with whom his brother shared his humour.

The turned his back upon them and crossed to the window, disquietened by his own reaction. He wasn’t a boy of fifteen anymore; and he had been dead to Mercutio for six years, even though for him it had seemed no time at all. In the natural course of events they would have grown apart; it was not Mercutio’s fault that Valentine had not.

He wrapped his arms around himself and stared out of the window. He had not thought beyond the moment when his brother returned. He had known of Tybalt from the emails - but it was one thing to have known of him, another to see his brother around the man he had given his heart to and see that love returned.

He should be happy for Mercutio.

“Val?”

Valentine turned, startled; lost in his own thoughts, he hadn’t heard Mercutio approach.

“Val, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” denied Valentine. Mercutio gave him a look he knew all too well; he sighed. “Nothing that you can fix, Mercutio,” he clarified. “It’s... I’ve lost six years. It’s not easy to handle sometimes. You’ve grown up and left me behind.”

“Val, I’m still _me_. I’m still the Mercutio you knew; I’m still your brother. Nothing can take that away.” Mercutio laid his hands on Valentine’s shoulders and stared into the blue eyes, mirrors of his own. 

Valentine smiled sadly. “You’re not the same man, Mercutio. We were boys; now you’re a man, and... we’ve both changed. I knew the Mercutio of six years ago. I’m still getting to know the Mercutio of now.”

Mercutio blinked, startled, and Valentine suddenly realised that the same question must have occurred to him. He had known a fifteen-year-old Valentine; did he know this slender young man of twenty-one?

“I’m not even sure _I_ know the me of now, Mercutio,” he said quietly, and knew from the look in Mercutio’s eyes that their thoughts had been the same.

“Not so different, perhaps,” said Tybalt quietly. “You still know each other’s thoughts.”

“And Tybalt knows yours,” said Valentine quietly. “I’m glad you had him to help you.” _To replace me,_ he added silently to himself. It hurt a little less than he had feared it might.

Tybalt evidently felt uncomfortable being verbally drawn into the space between them; Valentine shot him a sympathetic look. “We should let Tybalt rest; let’s go into your room,” he suggested. “I think Tybalt would prefer to sleep whilst we work things out.”

“Should I get used to your brother reading _my_ thoughts also?” exclaimed Tybalt, glancing to Mercutio.

Mercutio shook his head. “No mindreading; Val was always the more perceptive of the two of us.” He let his hands fall from Valentine’s shoulders as he turned towards Tybalt once more. “Tybalt, I-”

He got no further as the door panel chimed. They all glanced towards the entrance to the suite. They glanced at each other as it chimed again; and then Valentine turned to bolt towards the closet.

Fingers curled unexpectedly around his wrist and he was brought up short. Valentine dropped his glance to Mercutio’s hand in surprise, and then glanced up at his brother.

“No more running and hiding,” said Mercutio. “No-one’s going to take you anywhere, Val. They’d have to go through me first.”

“Through both of us,” amended Tybalt as he reached beneath the pillow and retrieved a long-bladed knife.

Valentine stared at Tybalt, then glanced at Mercutio, who grinned reassuringly as Tybalt made his way through to the lounge.

There was silence for a moment, then the sound of low voices; a moment later Tybalt called out. “It’s alright; it’s Benvolio and Rosaline.”

Romeo’s cousin followed Tybalt back through the lounge, Rosaline tagging along behind them. “Anyone want to tell me why Tybalt’s prowling around with a knife looking for trouble?” he asked as he sauntered into the room then halted at sight of Valentine. He stared hard at the younger Escalus brother, then gave a long, low whistle. “Val. Looking good for a dead guy.”

“Benvolio.” Valentine hung back behind Mercutio. 

Benvolio cocked his head on one side, then glanced back at Tybalt. “You were expecting trouble.”

Tybalt merely smiled mirthlessly. “I always do.”

“Point. Should we be expecting trouble too?”

“It would be prudent, I think,” said Tybalt. “How are my cousin and her husband?”

Benvolio grimaced. “Romeo’s in pretty rough shape but doing better than expected. Well enough to be complaining about the food in the med centre already and nagging about when he can get out. Julie’s alternating between threatening to sit on him and glaring at the Prince’s security goons.” He shrugged. “They’re both doing remarkably well, all things considering.”

Rosaline was staring at Valentine. “Are you really Mercutio’s brother?” she asked. 

“The hair gave it away, huh?” replied Valentine with a lopsided smile.

Rosaline glanced back to Tybalt. “What happens now?” she asked.

“Good question,” said Mercutio. “Technically the ball is in my uncle’s court right now.” He turned and fixed Tybalt with a glare as the tall Capulet pinched the bridge of his nose and frowned. “You, back into bed.”

Valentine thought for a moment that Tybalt was going to refuse, but after staring at Mercutio for a moment he merely shrugged and stretched out upon the bed, evidently still too tired to argue the point overmuch.

Valentine wandered back into the lounge to make more coffee. It looked like none of them would be going anywhere for a while. Already the suite felt crowded; for a fleeting moment he almost wished for the peace and silence of the white room.

Almost.


	69. Chapter 69

Mercutio should have been glad that Tybalt didn’t argue about lying down to rest again, but somehow his ready compliance only confirmed how exhausted he still was. He had stretched out on the bed upon his stomach, face turned away, but Mercutio knew better than to assume his dark-haired lover would sleep that easily despite the drugs and his exhaustion. His left arm lay by his side, palm uppermost, but his right hand was buried beneath the pillow and no doubt curled about the hilt of the knife.

He watched Valentine head into the other room; Val had never liked large groups at the best of times, and after all that time spent shut up alone in that cell - even if he had only hazy memories of it at best - even this small gathering must seem intimidating. Himself and Benvolio, Val at least knew; but Tybalt was still mostly an unknown and Rosaline a complete stranger.

Mercutio was still only barely coming to terms with discovering Valentine alive. He had grieved Valentine’s death and come to terms with it in his own way over the past six years. He was finding it hard to suddenly adjust to Valentine being really here, alive; not a ghost of his own dreaming but true flesh and blood. His dreams had been haunted for years by his last sight of his brother sprawled like a broken marionette upon the marble floor of the atrium in a pool of his own blood, the shattered glass of the skylight scattered about his body like shards of crystal, a fifteen year old boy. Valentine was right; Mercutio had known him as that lithe-limbed teenager, not this almost-emaciated young man, ill at ease in his own skin who had had six years of his life stolen; who had known Mercutio himself as a gawky seventeen-year-old. Valentine’s life had been put on hold but Mercutio’s had moved on. Mercutio could not even begin to imagine what effect Valentine’s incarceration would have had on him in the long term, and Valentine knew only the bare bones of how Mercutio had changed as he grew older. They would have to relearn each other almost anew until their former closeness had resettled to a new level as adults. Frankly the thought unnerved him.

He sat upon the edge of the bed and gently took Tybalt’s hand in his, feeling the slender fingers press upon his lightly. They sat in companionable silence for a little while whilst the smell of brewing coffee wafted in from the lounge. Mercutio couldn’t quite suppress a small, rueful smile; ordinarily, he would be the first to rush in to fill a silence with anything rather than let it fill the space, but perhaps something of Tybalt was rubbing off onto him - or maybe it was Val’s presence. Whatever the reason, although the silence was almost uncomfortable, he felt a reluctance to break it. Mercutio ran his thumb absently over Tybalt’s fingers, and Tybalt responded by briefly squeezing his hand.

Valentine returned with the coffee. Mercutio accepted a mug with a warm smile then glanced down at Tybalt. He was aware of Valentine hovering nearby and knew his brother was feeling ill at ease. This had been Valentine’s room but now he was the intruding stranger.

“Val -” he began quietly.

“He can stay,” said Tybalt quietly, his voice slightly muffled by the pillow. “They all can.”

“I don’t want to intrude,” said Valentine quietly as he tentatively sat on the end of the bed near Tybalt’s feet, his back pressed against the bedpost. Mercutio felt Tybalt squeeze his hand briefly again.

“It’s alright,” Mercutio said for them both.

How strange. He could remember doing this with Val often in the past; reading his brother’s mood, speaking for them both. Now he was doing it for Tybalt, and it was to his brother he gave answer.

Rosaline had taken Mercutio’s seat at the desk and was glancing around the room which had been Tybalt’s for several months now. It was very different from his room at the Capulet mansion but was nonetheless very obviously his; the heavy red velvet drapes were drawn as had ever been Tybalt’s custom, his father’s sword hung reverently upon the wall, and the bookshelves spoke of Tybalt’s own personal tastes in reading matter.

Benvolio seemed the only one unconcerned and relaxed; he helped himself to coffee then perched on the edge of the desk next to Rosaline. Rather close, Mercutio couldn’t help noticing; he made a mental note to tease Benvolio about that later. Romeo would -

He checked himself. The last thing Romeo would be likely to give a damn about would be whether his cousin were making calf-eyes at his ex-girlfriend. They all had far more serious things to concern them. 

“So, what next?” asked Benvolio, voicing aloud what they were all wondering. “You said it would be up to the Prince now. What do you think he’s likely to do?”

“He’ll be looking for Val,” said Mercutio. “What he chooses to do will depend on what he thinks has happened. He might already have guessed Val would make for me; in which case, he may be waiting for us to show our hand. He should know there’s no way I’d let him do anything to Val.”

“What I don’t get is why he claimed Valentine was dead in the first place,” said Benvolio. “Why put on that whole sham of a funeral? You’re the heir, after all, not him.”

“We were inseparable,” said Mercutio with a shrug. “If he’d simply sent Val away then I’d just have run away to find him. If I thought him dead then I guess he assumed I’d give up, fall in line, be the dutiful nephew. And if I stepped out of line, he’d still have something to hold over my head and keep me in line.”

“And if something happened to you, he’d have a backup option,” added Rosaline. Mercutio nodded.

“So he’ll want to get his hands back on Valentine to keep you under his thumb,” said Benvolio, nodding understanding. “No offence, Mercutio, but your uncle’s a bastard.”

“None taken,” shrugged Mercutio. “I don’t think anyone in this room would disagree with you.”

There was a very quiet snort from Tybalt. Mercutio squeezed his hand lightly.

“So, do we assume he knows, or what?” asked Benvolio.

Tybalt sighed, then rolled over onto his back, wincing slightly. “We need to leave the moment Romeo is well enough to travel,” he said quietly, his voice rasping slightly. “There is nowhere in Verona that will be safe from the Prince. He cannot know for certain yet that we have Valentine. There are no cameras in this suite - I made certain of that myself. If we are cautious, we may fool him for a time yet. The Prince will expect our report tomorrow.” His green gaze shifted to Mercutio. “The medics will no doubt have told him of my injury. We should play up its impact. He will not question it if you and Benvolio show up at ten tomorrow to report and I am... indisposed. No-one will be able to enter this suite in your absence without my noticing - and it will be interesting to see if anyone makes such an attempt and presumes I am perhaps still neutralised by the medics’ drugs and my injury.”

“I don’t like the idea of leaving you vulnerable to such an intruder,” said Mercutio slowly. Tybalt grinned mirthlessly.

“Who do you think the guards in this wing are loyal to, Mercutio?”

Rosaline chuckled. “The same person over half our aunt’s people are still loyal to,” she smirked. “You know, she’s had no end of trouble retaining decent people since we left Verona, Tybalt.”

“I am... gratified to hear that. Certainly the ones she had in Mantua were... sub-par.”

“Do I want to know how long you’ve been replacing my uncle’s men with your own?” asked Mercutio with a scowl. He suspected he didn’t want to know the answer, and Tybalt’s little smirk confirmed that suspicion. “On second thoughts, don’t tell me. I’m just glad you’re on my side and not your aunt’s.” He took a sip of his coffee whilst he gathered his thoughts. “So. Anyone trying to come snoop will be noted and intercepted by our people. Val will be safe here. I assume that by this point all the kitchen staff in this wing are ours as well?”

Tybalt merely raised one eyebrow. Mercutio grinned. “I can’t believe we’re effectively staging our own coup right under my uncle’s nose here. Did you plan this all along?”

“No. I sought only to protect Juliet. And you.”

“Not your own hide?” asked Benvolio, then knocked back the last of his coffee. Rosaline snorted.

“You don’t know Tybalt very well, do you?” she said with a wry smile.

“I’m beginning to learn,” he shrugged. “So, Valentine hides out here with Tybalt playing hooky, you come and keep them company Rosa - because obviously, Juliet will want to come check on her two favourite cousins when she’s not hovering like an anxious mother hen over Romeo - and there’s the perfect excuse to have a late breakfast for several people sent up to Tybalt’s rooms whilst Mercutio and I give an edited version of the story to uncle dearest that talks up Tybalt to be shitting sunshine and rainbows and no-one mentions a word about Val because he doesn’t exist and we’re none the wiser - did I miss anything?”

“Shitting sunshine and rainbows?” spluttered Mercutio, laughing. He wasn’t sure if Tybalt was going to be complimented or outraged by the expression, and from the look on Tybalt’s face it seemed he wasn’t sure either.

Rosaline jumped up. “Well, seeing as my cousin Tybalt is obviously sleeping off his injury, you’re going to escort me down to the med centre to see my cousin Juliet, aren’t you, Ben?” she announced, straightening her skirts. “After all, can’t have an uppity Capulet bitch swanning about the palace unescorted, can we?” 

Benvolio spluttered. “Are all Capulet women this bolshie and pushy?” he asked as she grabbed his wrist and hauled him towards the door.

“Only the ones enamoured of Montague boys,” muttered Tybalt darkly.

“See you tomorrow, Ben!” called Mercutio with a grin. “You noticed that too, huh?” he added _sotto voce_ as Rosaline dragged Benvolio outside.

“A blind man couldn’t have missed it,” muttered Tybalt. He rolled over onto his side with a grimace.

“How are you doing?” asked Mercutio gently. Tybalt merely grunted. Mercutio got to his feet. “We should decide where Val’s going to sleep.”

“Mercutio, I don’t particularly care where he _chooses_ to go. I need to rest.” Tybalt closed his eyes.

Mercutio stared down at his lover’s back and sighed. He turned to glance at Valentine, and blinked in surprise.

His brother had curled up upon the end of the bed and fallen asleep already.


End file.
